Family Secrets
by lfvoy
Summary: Newly-promoted investigative reporter Marty Castle starts working on her first article series. What she finds out when investigating it - and what happens while she does - will give her an unexpected, and sometimes painful, education about the things parents don't tell their children. OC-centric futurefic, now complete.
1. Chapter 1

_Castle_ is the copyrighted property of ABC Studios. This fiction item is intended for entertainment purposes only. No compensation has been received or will be accepted for it, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended or should be implied.

* * *

_Dedicated to the wonderful ncb1._

* * *

**Family Secrets**  
_Chapter One_

* * *

It was old-fashioned, in this day of commonplace speech-recognition software and audio-conversion options. But sometimes Marty still preferred to type her stories. There was something about the click of the keys, the feeling of the pads beneath her fingertips that could make the words stop merely appearing and start flowing, the way they were this afternoon.

She'd long since learned to tune the noise of the _Ledger_'s newsroom out at times like this. That was why she'd finished an entire paragraph before she realized her boss had been standing there the entire time she'd been working on it.

"There's this new idea that's coming into style," he said when she finally flicked her eyes up. "All the rage. It's called meeting a deadline."

She didn't turn her head or move her fingers off the keyboard. "Keep your pants on. I'll have this in before morning."

"Really? You know what time it is now, don't you?"

She suddenly became aware that the noise level in the newsroom had tapered off. "Should I?"

"Weren't you the one who told me you had to knock off right before five so you could go to some kind of family gathering tonight?"

"Yeah. So?" She still had time left, didn't she? Pushing up her sleeve, she checked the antique wristwatch that had once belonged to her grandfather. "Oh, crap."

It was 5:15. No wonder things were quiet.

Pawing through a pile of papers – hard copies were another old-fashioned thing she sometimes still found surprisingly useful – she found her earpiece. "I'm sorry, Reston. I have to go."

"Your story isn't done," he answered, stating the obvious.

Marty looped the earpiece over her ear and flicked the switch. "Veta, sign on." As she heard the virtual assistant's answer, she continued, "Look, I'm no more than an hour from finishing this. I can get out of there by nine, ten at the latest. Then get home, finish this up and upload it to the server. Before midnight, okay?"

He folded his arms. "What if I said it wasn't okay?"

She started stuffing papers and her pad into a messenger bag. "Veta, save the text on my terminal and send it home. Then run a standard spelling and grammar check and put the file up about…oh, nine-fifteen or so."

"Yeah," said Reston. "I thought that's what you'd say."

"I can't miss this one!" She took a breath and softened her tone. "I can't, Bill. My father would kill me, and he'd have every right."

"What is it, someone's birthday?"

"No, we had dinner on Sunday for that." She closed the messenger bag and reached for the garment bag that hung behind her desk. Clipping them together, she put the whole thing on her back and picked up her bicycle from where it rested against the window. "This one's a surprise, something special to celebrate the big announcement."

"Big announcement? Is this something newsworthy?"

"Yeah, but I agreed to wait a few days. Don't worry. We'll run the story first."

He sighed and shook his head, though she could see a smile starting at the corners of his eyes. "I'm holding you to that. And to your deadline!"

She was halfway to the door, hooking a leg over the bicycle frame. "I promise. On both."

"…and Castle, how many times have I told you? Don't ride your bike in the hall!"

* * *

She didn't. Well, not really. There was no point in riding the bike directly from the newsroom, since it was on the fourth floor and she still had to ride the elevator down. But she could straddle it, and once she got to the lobby the coast was clear enough. There were only a couple of steps from there to the street, after all.

"Veta," she said as she swung into the street, pedaling furiously. "Any messages waiting?"

"_One message,"_ came the answer. _"From Rory."_

Marty's lips quirked into a smile, but it fell off her face quickly as she swept out of the bike lane onto a side street. Someone honked behind her. Even now, a decade after stringent new fuel economy regulations had taken millions of cars off the road, New York's rush hour traffic was legendary and only about half the streets had been re-striped with bike lanes.

"Voice memo or text?" she asked once she'd gotten into an alleyway.

"_Voice memo."_

"Go ahead and play it."

The voice in her ear shifted. _"Hey, Marty,"_ came Rory's familiar tenor. _"I just got on-shift, and there's some interesting news on the rumor mill. Why didn't you tell me?"_

She chuckled. "Veta, record and send a voice memo response."

"_Go ahead."_

"Not my story to share," she said. "That's what you get for missing Sunday dinner, though. End and send, Veta."

"_Okay. Sending…complete."_

"Good. Now check traffic and confirm the quickest route to my parents' place."

"_Working. Bike lane routes only?"_

She sighed. "No, I'll risk regular traffic." And sidewalks too, if she had to, ticket risk or not. She'd _promised _she wouldn't be late this time, and it wasn't like she didn't know any cops.

"_Route found."_ The directions rattled off in her ear, and she turned back out onto a larger street. Fortunately, though, she only had few more miles to go – and she'd taken her trail bike today. Downshifting, Marty pedaled harder.

* * *

She was out of breath as she loudly burst through the front door. Her father was in the kitchen, concentrating on whatever he was making. "Don't ride your bike in the house, Marty."

"I'm not!" She wheeled it over to lean against the wall next to the front door, dropped her bags next to it, and walked up behind him. "Am I late?"

"If you have to ask that question, you probably know the answer already." Richard Castle grinned and turned to kiss his younger daughter hello. "Though, for once, it's not the usual answer this time. Your mother just called. She got tied up and it'll be about an hour."

"Oh, good." She peeked around his right shoulder. "Salad? Then what am I smelling?"

"Pasta carbonara, Alexis style."

"Yum. She's here?"

"I'm here," said her older sister, coming into the kitchen with her phone in her hand. "Just had to solve another crisis. Ellie met a boy. You know how it goes."

Her dad groaned theatrically. "That was bad enough the first time around." His eyes slid over to Marty. "And the second."

"Then it's a good thing it isn't your daughter this time," answered Alexis easily as she came over to give Marty a hug. "How are you doing? Haven't seen you in a while."

"Work deadlines, stress. It's awesome."

"She made staff writer two weeks ago," said her father with a proud look.

"Hey! Congratulations!"

She ducked her head, embarrassed, but couldn't keep the smile off her face. "Thanks. How are Eddie and the kids? Are they coming?"

"Not tonight," answered Alexis. "Tonight's just parents and children. But they'll be at the official party next month."

"Parents and children? Does that mean Jay is actually going to make it?"

Her father sighed heavily and Alexis rolled her eyes.

Marty pressed her lips together, exasperated. "Why am I not surprised?"

"He has a gig," said her father. "He's not sure when it's going to finish."

"And I have an article due," she snapped, feeling her temper rise. "But I'm here. This wasn't a last minute idea."

"No, but –"

"Veta, call Jay."

"Marty," said Alexis. "Let it go."

"But –"

"He'll only make us miserable, whining and complaining about wanting to be somewhere else."

"Veta, cancel." Her shoulders dropped. "Damn it, Alexis, it's not just Mom's birthday. She went in and announced her _retirement_ today. Didn't she?" She looked at her dad.

"Yeah, she did." A smile appeared, though she noticed it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Said it was worse than my last day at the precinct. Harlan cried actual tears."

"Good for him. Did she get a picture?"

"We'll find out in fifty-five minutes. It was definitely a once-in-a-lifetime event."

"It was a once-in-a-lifetime _phenomenon_. Harlan cried, I'm on time, and Jay can't be bothered to make it." Marty sighed and took off her earpiece. "I'm going to hide the bike and then go upstairs and change. Then I'll come down and help out with the wine."

Her dad tugged on her ponytail as she walked by. "Braid this for you?"

"Da-a-d. You and your braids."

"They keep my fingers limber!" He held them up and wiggled them to make his point.

"And you haven't needed to braid stuff for physical therapy since I was five," she retorted. "I was going to wear it down."

"Oh, no. We're going to be fancy tonight. That means no hair hanging in your face."

"I'll brush it out." She started for her bags and bike, but he followed her into the living room.

"Come on, Marty," he said. "I'll make a special one –"

"Dad." She turned to protest again, but the words died on her lips. His tone had been teasing, but the look on his face wasn't. It'd been a while since she'd seen that particular tightening around his eyes.

"All right," she said instead. "Just let me change first."

* * *

"You have such beautiful hair."

Chuckling, Marty met her father's gaze in the full-length mirror that still sat in her old bedroom. "That compliment gets you nowhere."

"But I mean it so sincerely."

"It's pure narcissism. I have your hair." She had his eyes, too. Their absolutely identical coloring had been a family joke for years, particularly during puberty when she'd occasionally found a hair that had transitioned from the same shade of brown to the same shade of silver.

He finished brushing and ran his hands through it. "Mine was never this long. Of course, that meant it was neater."

She shrugged. "Neat's a lost cause. The ponytail's easier."

"At least you haven't cut it short. It's gorgeous when you wear it up." He sectioned it off and started to weave pieces back and forth. "I wanted to talk to you."

"I guessed that."

"How would you feel if it wasn't just your mother who retired?"

She had to force herself not to jerk her head out of his hands. "What? Writing's in your blood, Dad. You've put out a book nearly every year since you were younger than I am now."

"That's right, which means there are more than fifty," he answered, still braiding. "Don't you think that's enough to let me lie…down –" he cut off abruptly. "Sleep. Re…relax. Br-breathe some air." He dropped his hands. "Damn it."

"Take a break?" she asked after a moment. "Rest on your laurels?"

"Yeah," he muttered, not looking at her. "Words ran away from me again."

"They just do that because they're afraid of what you do with them." This, too, was an old joke. Marty had been a senior in high school when she'd first heard the medical terminology: _lingering effects of traumatic brain injury including minor episodic aphasia._

After an awkward pause, he took a deep breath and started working on her hair again. "Anyway. Don't you think it's time I just slowed down and enjoyed life? Spent some time with your mother, maybe do some traveling?"

"I can't imagine you stopping writing," she said slowly. "Though it'd make keeping the Heat Index easier." She'd created that web site – the official, definitive compendium of his work – as a college project, and still updated it every few months.

"I don't think I'll quit completely. I'm just…ready for it not to be so intense." He reached for an elastic band. "There. All done. What do you think?"

"It looks awesome. You do such good work," she continued, acknowledging the double meaning in his question. "But it's up to you. Why now?"

"Why not now?"

Was that an evasion? "Is it because Mom's retiring too?"

"Partly. But partly because I…need to slow down. We've both been thinking about it for a while, actually. Her birthday seemed a good time to make it official." Inspecting her outfit, he brushed her shoulders off. "A skirt? You really did dress up tonight."

"I wear them every now and then. I even –" she used his arms to steady herself as she stepped into the dress shoes she'd brought – "have been known to wear heels."

He looked her up and down again, a smile crossing his features. "I really mean it this time. You are a lovely, lovely young woman. And not just because you're my daughter."

"Although I'm sure that helps." She laughed, but it wasn't easy. Changing the subject was classic Richard Castle behavior when he didn't want to discuss something.

Yet _he'd_ been the one to start this conversation.

Marty took a breath and reached up to touch his face. "Dad. I love you, and I love Mom, and I'll support both of you whatever you decide. All right?"

He drew her into a hug. "All right. Thank you."

"Just be sure it's what you really want and for the right reasons."

"It's for the right reasons. But we'll make sure."

* * *

"I think he's making the right decision," whispered Alexis as they stood upstairs in the hall waiting to spring the surprise.

"Really?"

"He's not young anymore, Marty." Her sister seemed to be choosing her words carefully. "And Dad and Kate have never really had a chance to spend a lot of time together."

"But retirement? That…sounds awfully permanent."

"He can't write forever."

"I know. It's just…" she trailed off. Why was she feeling so uneasy about this? "Is it because I moved out this past summer?"

"No. I don't think it has anything to do with you – or me or Jay, either. I think…I think he just doesn't want to miss out on the time he has left."

Marty swallowed. Yes, her parents had been older than usual when she was born, but was she really ready for this kind of thinking?

"Don't worry," said Alexis in response to the look on her face. "It's not like either one of them to hide things. If there was something we needed to know about, they'd say so."

"Would they? He missed a word earlier. It's been a long time since I've heard him do that."

"You said it yourself. You're not around quite as much now that you've moved out. That means you're not going to see some things quite as often." Alexis' eyes were back on the front door. "I think I hear her shoes on the steps."

* * *

The celebratory dinner had been a success, though Alexis was right; it was different being with her parents now that she didn't see them every day. Marty found herself getting caught up in the conversation as much as she ever had, however, and her concerns faded.

Maybe her parents really did just want to enjoy some time to themselves.

"So," asked her mother over dessert, "how's the new position going?"

"It's a lot more work," she said. "In fact, I can't stay too late tonight because I've got an article due by midnight. But I love it. They're taking me a lot more seriously now, and my editor just accepted my first investigative proposal."

"Really? What about?"

"Secret pardons. You know, when someone's paroled for no apparent reason and then their criminal record is quietly expunged once they're out of prison? That's not the way it's supposed to work under New York law."

"Going after cover-ups already?" asked her father with a smile.

"Not really. I don't think there's anything illegal going on. It's more about exposing a loophole in the system. If people really are being imprisoned when they aren't guilty, why be so secretive about it? Is it a public confidence thing, or…?" she trailed off. "I haven't really had a chance to start on it yet, but I've found a few cases that might be worth exploring."

"Recent cases?"

"No, Mom," she said, her lips quirking. "Though I'm probably only going back five or ten years. Come on. I'm not out to make the NYPD look bad."

Her mother exchanged a long glance with her father, and there was some sort of undertone in her voice when she answered. "If there's bad police work going on, it…shouldn't be kept under cover."

"Well, the whole point of the jury system is to prevent innocent people from going to prison just because the cops didn't do their job right. And if we're talking dirty cops, then it's something that really needs to be brought to light. But I don't think it's going that far," she said. "I really do think it's just about the PR aspects."

"Maybe," said her mother, her tone normal again. "I'll be interested to read the article when you're done."

"I'm aiming to have it ready around the end of January. That's assuming something else doesn't come up before then. If there's a big trial I may get assigned to cover that instead."

"So you're definitely leaning toward law enforcement and crime issues?"

"Maybe you've forgotten who my parents are? A mystery writer and a police detective? It's kind of natural."

That elicited laughter around the table, but she didn't miss her parents' second exchange. They had always spoken as much with their eyes and their facial expressions as they had with words. This time, Marty was sure. There was definitely something they weren't saying.

And by their expressions, it was something significant.

But these were her _parents_. She sighed inwardly and reminded herself that her family already provided plenty of source material for the section of the _Ledger_'s site still colloquially known as "Page Six." Pulling them into one of her articles could backfire badly.

* * *

They shooed their parents away from cleanup after dinner was finished. "We're celebrating you tonight, Kate," said Alexis. "You're not supposed to do any work. Sit down with Dad and have a glass of that wine Marty set out."

They both laughed, but gave in with no further arguments. Marty followed Alexis into the kitchen with a stack of dirty plates, pausing for a moment to slip her earpiece on and check for new messages.

She had one, in text this time. _I was on shift Sunday. Sorry I missed the birthday dinner. But now that Beckett's leaving, does that mean I can get away with calling in sick to go to yours?_

Chuckling, she sent a reply. _Your decision, your risk, your reward. And your funeral too._

"Who was that?" asked Alexis when she pulled off her earpiece.

"Rory." Picking up the first dish, Marty started rinsing. "He's grumping about not hearing about Mom's retirement in advance."

"Should've been here on Sunday."

"That's what I told him." She put the plate in the dishwasher and reached for the next one. "But he was out on patrol. He's still pretty far down on the seniority ladder, you know."

"Yeah, I know." Alexis opened a cabinet to get a plastic container. "Okay. That's new."

"What's new?"

There was a picture taped to the inside of the cabinet door, showing the contents of the cabinet when fully stocked. Underneath it, the items were listed in their father's scrawl. "Maybe they hired a new housekeeper?"

"Neither one of them mentioned doing that," said Alexis.

"It probably just hasn't come up." Marty went back to rinsing.

"Probably. So anyway, what's up with you and Rory?"

"What?"

"You and Rory. You brought him up twice at dinner tonight, and now you're smiling when you text him. Is there something new?"

Marty stopped rinsing. "What are you talking about?"

"Just that I haven't seen you blush like that in a while."

"I didn't –" she broke off. Had she? "Oh, come on, Alexis. He's practically my brother."

"Practically doesn't mean actually."

"We've just been…talking a little more lately," she said, turning her attention back to the sink so that she could hide the blush that had no doubt reappeared, based on the sudden warmth in her cheeks. "I think he gets bored working second shift sometimes."

"Mm-hmm. You do know that the majority of police calls come in between 5:00 and 9:00 p.m.?"

"Now you sound like Lanie."

"Well, given that she's his mother, maybe I should be the one who calls you out the way she ordinarily would."

"Don't you have any idea how much work we're both doing right now?" She slid out the dishwasher's top rack and began loading glasses. "He's still trying to get on with the forensics unit, and I just got promoted."

"In other words, you're both getting your professional lives straight. It'd be a good time to start working on the personal ones too, don't you think?"

She stopped and looked up again. "Don't you remember what happened last time? Liz Ryan and I didn't speak for over a year after her brother and I broke up. And by then the four of us were finishing college, and she was starting her Peace Corps tour."

It was Alexis' turn to blush. "I'm sorry. I forgot all about that. It's just…it seems natural that since you and Rory and Jay and Liz all grew up together, you'd still be friends as adults."

"We are friends. The mistake is for any of us trying to be anything more." Marty picked up another dish. "It screws things up, spins them around. Not to mention making for some pretty awkward dinner parties."

"It did for a while, yeah. But that was only once, Marty. It could've been a fluke."

"Or it could not have." She was thankful to see her mother walking into the room. "Mom. Hi. We should be done in a few minutes."

"Good," answered her mother as she refilled the wine glasses she'd brought with her. "We were thinking about putting a movie on. Do either of you have a preference?"

"Speaking of all the work I've been doing." Marty glanced at her watch. "I'm sorry, but I really need to go. I've got to finish that article, and then re-read the one I wrote about your retirement."

"You guys are running something in the _Ledger_ tomorrow morning?"

"Yeah. I promised Reston a scoop when I asked to leave early, though I didn't tell him what it was, and I actually wrote the article over the weekend. I just need to give it a last look."

"You didn't turn it in and trust him to sit on it?"

"I write for a newspaper, Mom."

"That's true. Alexis? You staying?"

"For a while. Go on up and change," she said to Marty. "You can't ride your bike home in that dress, and I can finish up here."

* * *

She'd forgotten the odd looks her parents had shared over dinner until she came back downstairs after changing. They weren't in the living room like she'd thought. Instead, she overheard low voices coming from her father's study.

Marty picked out her mother's first. "…not going down that rabbit hole again."

"I know there's no guarantee that she'll find him," her father answered, equally soft. "But I just want to make sure she doesn't. It's only a couple of phone calls."

"No," answered her mother. "We agreed to leave this alone –"

"And that's exactly what I'm trying to do! Make sure it gets left alone."

"She said she's only going back five or ten years. Pulgatti's pardon was way before then."

Marty blinked. They were arguing about her article?

"But what if she does go back further? Beckett, there can't have been that many of these things over the years. I just want to protect her. Don't you?"

"Don't even _think_ about accusing me of that. Castle, you know what happens every time we try to slay this dragon. She is not a damsel in distress and you are not some modern-day St. George!"

"Oh, for the love of – I know she doesn't need rescuing. Just prevent – protect – safe – oh, _damn_ it." He turned away unexpectedly, and she didn't have time to duck out of sight. The surprise was plain on his face. "Marty."

Sighing, she came the rest of the way into the room. "I was just coming to say good night. Is everything okay?"

Both of them took on neutral expressions. She'd always hated it when they did this. No matter how much or how obviously they disagreed about their children, Richard Castle and Kate Beckett had always made a point of presenting a united front toward them.

"Yeah, honey," he said. "Everything's fine. Alexis said you're heading out?"

"I need to finish those articles," she answered. "The deadline's midnight."

"Okay." He drew her into a hug, and reached out an arm toward her mother so the three of them stood entwined in each other's arms for a long moment. "We love you. Don't forget that."

"I know. I love you too."

"Let us know when you get home safely," said her mother as she stepped back.

"I will." She left them in the study, knowing they wouldn't start arguing again if they thought she was still in earshot. But once she was out the front door with her bike, she paused and looked at it for a long moment.

"Veta," she said into her earpiece while she watched traffic whiz by. "Set up a database search of corrections and parole records, starting about ten years ago and going back indefinitely. Send the results to the pardons article file."

"_Okay,"_ said the assistant. _"Search type and term?"_

"Proper name," she answered. "Pulgatti."

* * *

_I know that this fic breaks some rules. It's OC-centric, and the canonical characters are only playing background roles. But it simply grabbed me around the throat and wouldn't let me rest until I wrote it. It's not quite done, but I know how it ends and enough of it is now written for me to go ahead and start posting one chapter a week._

_Special thanks go to jackwabbit for reassuring me I wasn't crazy and that I should write this story, and to nia for information about the long-term effects of traumatic brain injuries._

_More author's notes are available on my web site: LFVoy dot net slash authors-notes slash notes-on-family-secrets.  
_


	2. Chapter 2

_Castle_ is the copyrighted property of ABC Studios. This fiction item is intended for entertainment purposes only. No compensation has been received or will be accepted for it, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended or should be implied.

* * *

**Family Secrets**  
_Chapter Two_

* * *

Two nights later, there was a knock on her door at 12:45 a.m. Marty frowned. How had someone gotten through the front lobby this time of night? "Veta, pull up a door cam image."

Oh. He had a plain overcoat on top of it, but Rory was still wearing his uniform. That would have satisfied the security guard downstairs.

"Got off on time for a change," he said when she opened the door. "Was on my way home, but I saw your lights were still on."

She didn't bother to point out that her apartment was in the opposite direction from the Eighteenth Precinct as his parents' house, where he was living while he saved up to buy his own place. Instead, she waved him in. "Yeah, but I wasn't planning to be up much longer."

"Really." He pointed at the middle of her living room floor, where her city bike was upside-down on a drop cloth. "Problem?"

She shrugged. "Chain needed tightening. I've been on the trail bike the last few days."

"Mm-hmm." He accepted a glass of water from her, sitting down on the Mission-style couch she'd bought when she moved in. "You don't usually leave your stuff out when you turn in."

"It's my place."

"And you don't usually work on your bikes in the middle of the night unless you can't sleep."

"Is that why you're here? Because you think I can't sleep?"

He gestured to the room around them. "Can't you? Your lights usually aren't on at this hour."

"We're adults, Rory. We don't have a bedtime anymore." Even she was startled at the peevishness in her tone. Since when had she taken to snapping at him for simply being concerned?

He just looked at her and took another swallow from the glass of water.

She sighed and dropped down on the other end of the couch. "I'm sorry. You're right. I've got some things on my mind."

"You've been quiet ever since that dinner at your parents' last week."

"Yeah."

"That was a good article in the _Ledger_, though. Even if the byline was 'Staff.'"

"It was pretty heavily edited. Besides, 'Castle' would have been too obvious. I don't need clips or credit that badly."

"But it was your work."

She nodded, wondering where he was going with this.

"How much did you leave out?"

"What?"

"You knew about the retirement ahead of time. So why are you acting so upset about it, now that the story's out?"

"Upset?" She got up and walked to her window, staring out at the street below. "That's not upsetting me."

"What is it, then?" He joined her at the window, brushing a back a stray piece of hair that had fallen out of her ponytail. "Something upset you that night."

"More than one thing, actually," she said, stepping back a little in response to his familiarity. She hadn't realized he was so comfortable inside her personal space. She hadn't realized she was that comfortable letting him there.

"Lay it on me. I can take it either alphabetically or chronologically."

"I'm not sure I'm ready to talk about it yet."

"Too bad."

Her lips quirked. He really did know her like a brother, including knowing when – and how – to pull her out of a brooding mood.

_But he isn't your brother, and you know it._ She couldn't decide if the voice inside her mind sounded more like Alexis or Lanie.

Marty pushed that entire train of thought to the back of her head and turned to lean a hip on the windowsill. "I got a lead on that investigative piece."

"That's good, right?"

"From them."

"Who? Your parents?"

"Yeah. I overheard a name in an argument, so I looked it up." She gestured toward her terminal, which sat in an alcove near the bedroom door. "It was exactly the kind of case I was looking for: a murder-with-aggravating that suddenly got paroled, and then pardoned a few years later."

"So what's bothering you?"

She paced back toward the overturned bike. "They way they talked about it, they're both really familiar with the details."

"They both know the details about a lot of murder cases. So do you, given that you edited that autobiography."

"This murder happened in 1992. Dad was just getting started, and Mom was in junior high school. So how do they know about it?" She reached down and tweaked one of the bike's pedals. "And it's not in _Family of Twelve_. I'd never heard the name 'Pulgatti' before."

"Neither have I. Are you going to look into it?"

She kept playing with the pedal.

"Ah," he said after a moment. "What did you find out?"

"I found Joe Pulgatti. He's living in a facility upstate."

"So call him up, ask for an interview."

She closed her eyes and sighed. "Should I? Really? What if there's a reason my parents never talked about this case?"

He came up and tilted her chin so that she was forced to look up at him. "Who are you and what have you done with Martha Castle?"

"What?"

"The Marty I know wouldn't hesitate."

"It's my _Mom and Dad_, Rory."

"What are you afraid of? Finding out more about Pulgatti, or finding out more about them?"

There it was.

Marty pulled away and went back to the window, bracing her forearms on the windowsill so that she could lean her forehead against the cool glass. "You're right."

"Usually am."

"And insufferable."

"That too. Are you going to call him?"

"Yeah," she said after a moment. "I might as well. This'll eat at me if I don't."

"Good girl."

She found herself smiling as she turned back to him. "Which means I really do need to get some sleep if I want to be sharp enough to handle it."

"I can take a hint," he answered, and she found herself noticing just how appealing his answering smile was. Had it always been that way, or was she only noticing because of Alexis' needling the other night?

Again, Marty pushed that line of thought away. One problem at a time.

* * *

"It's like déjà vu, seeing you sitting across a table from me like this."

She blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"You look just like your mother," said the elderly man sitting across from her.

"People always tell me I look like my father."

"Nah," he answered. "That's just because you have blue eyes. You look like your mother. Tall with long legs, all those angles and the fire inside. You're her all over again." He paused. "But you're not a cop."

"No," she said, glad he'd given her the opening. She unclipped the stylus from her pad and tapped it to turn it on. "I'm a reporter. I'm doing a story about people who were pardoned after their parole. Do you remember me calling?"

"I'm old, not senile." He waved his hand around the room. "This isn't the lockup ward, is it?"

"No." Bright Senior Living was an assisted-living facility, but she'd seen no more than the usual security features as she'd been ushered in. They were seated in the corner of a sunny dining room, though at this hour of the afternoon nobody was eating. "So you do remember."

"Of course. You want to talk about Bobby Armen."

"Yes. You pled guilty to his murder back in '92. Was it to avoid a trial?"

"Like I told your Mom, it was to avoid a needle." He shifted in his wheelchair and leaned forward. "It seemed like the smart thing to do at the time."

"And now?"

"It was still a smart thing to do."

"But you were pardoned after your parole. Doesn't that mean you weren't guilty?"

He let out a long sigh. "I'm not a good man, Miss Castle. Don't get that otherwise in your head. I've broken a lot of arms, put more than a couple people in the ground."

"Was Bob Armen one of them?"

He met her eyes. "No. He wasn't."

"Then why did you plead guilty?"

"Because I knew I couldn't win if the real killer had a badge."

She laid her stylus down, though she left the pad active and recording. "I'm sorry. Are you telling me that a _cop_ killed Bob Armen?"

"You haven't talked to your mother about this." It wasn't a question.

Marty took a breath. "She's never talked to me about you, Mr. Pulgatti. She doesn't even know I'm here."

"Then how did you find me?"

She wasn't about to tell him the truth. "Your name came up on a list of people who seemed right for the article I'm doing. There's more than one."

"But you weren't surprised when I said you looked like your mother. You know I've met her."

Oh, crap. She was caught. "Okay, yeah. I know you've met. But that's all I know."

"I have a boy. Born in '87, so I wasn't around when he was little. But he still comes to see me sometimes. Even brought his grandkid last time. There's a lot he doesn't know about me."

"Why is that?"

"He doesn't need to. Maybe you don't, either. Ever consider that?"

She thought about Rory's visit. "I have. That's why I'm not asking her. I'm asking you."

That earned her a chuckle. "Good one, kid. And it's not so much the Bobby Armen case you want to know about, is it?"

"It is," she answered, "but not the way you think. I'm not so much interested in who killed him as in why you were put in prison. And why were you then paroled in '15 and pardoned a few years later? Why not simply set you free if you weren't guilty?"

"I never said I wasn't guilty. I said I didn't kill Bobby."

"But you were imprisoned for his murder."

He eyed her. "It was a different time, Miss Castle. A different New York."

"In 1992 or in 2015?"

"Both. But I'm talking about '92. We were on top of the world, y'know? Running things our way. But there were some cops that took exception, started taking things into their own hands."

Picking her stylus back up, she made a note on her pad to find out who "we" might be. "And something happened."

"Yeah. Bobby Armen got shot and I went in for it."

"Why?"

"Simple. It was easier to think he'd been shot by a thug than to admit that there were dirty cops around." He leaned forward. "Six years later, your grandmother showed up."

"My grandmother? Which one?"

"Your mother's mother. Johanna Beckett."

"She died in 1999. You said you'd met my mother."

"I've met 'em both. Your dad, too. Do you want me to tell this story or not?"

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

"Even though it might make your parents look bad."

"I'm an adult, Mr. Pulgatti. I know my parents aren't perfect." Marty stopped and took a breath. She needed to keep this from escalating. "I'm sorry. Will you finish the story? Sometime in 1998 or 1999, you met my grandmother, and she was killed not too long after. What does that have to do with you getting paroled sixteen years later?"

"It happened in 2011. Few years before you were born, I guess. Your mom comes to talk to me with that fire in her eyes, the same one her mother had. The same one you have. She wanted to talk about Bobby. I could tell she'd already done some research on her own."

"That sounds like her."

"She only came in once, but I could see it. She wanted answers. I warned her to let sleeping dogs lie, that too many people had already died." He paused. "I guess she didn't listen, because the next thing I hear on the grapevine is she's been shot. Nearly died."

"Yeah," said Marty. "I know about that. It took her a long time to recover. You said she never came to see you again?"

"No. But your dad did. He'd been with her the first time, in '11. Came in by himself right after the parole hearing in '15. Told me they were going to set things straight, gave me a couple of numbers to call once I was processed out."

Her father was involved too? "What numbers?"

"People who helped me get back on my feet. I'd been in for more than twenty years. The world wasn't the same place."

"What happened during your parole hearing?" She was making notes as quickly as she could.

"That's the funny thing. I don't know."

"You weren't at your own parole hearing?"

"I was a VFO with aggravating. I wasn't even supposed to be up for parole. It was a complete surprise when the parole officer came to see me to talk about post-release plans." He paused. "I didn't have any. Took me two weeks just to come up with something."

"Who testified at the hearing, if not you?"

"I don't know. And by then, I'd learned not to ask any questions. I got out, and I got straight, and that's all that mattered."

"Makes sense," she said so that he had an answer. Marty's mind was reeling. Secret testimony? At a parole hearing? Was that even legal? "What did you do after you got out?"

"I'll tell you what I didn't do," said Pulgatti. "I didn't go back to the city. I was done with family business, and they were done with me. Moved upstate, started over. Ran a shop for a while. Then retired, ended up here."

She looked around. "It's a nice place. Must be fairly reasonable, price wise."

"I wouldn't know."

"What?"

"I'm not paying for it. I've never figured out who was. Only thing anyone ever told me was that I'd earned it with all the time I spent in prison for a crime I didn't commit."

"Who told you that?" Just how many surprises were there going to be in this interview?

"A voice on the phone, a shadow in a parking garage. Haven't heard from him for a while now. I never did learn who it was for certain."

"Do you have any guesses?"

"Yeah," said Pulgatti, his eyes not leaving hers. "I think it might've been your father. But he wouldn't have told you about that, now would he?"

* * *

Marty sighed and wished, once more, that the car she'd rented for the drive upstate wasn't locked into self-drive mode. There was practically no traffic out here on the highway, so there was no reason she couldn't drive herself. She certainly could use the distraction.

_My parents? Mixed up in a conspiracy involving dirty cops?_

She could use the speed, too. The pokey solar-electric hybrid was speed-governed to save on reserve power, but that meant an extra hour added on to her trip back to the city.

_Was my grandmother murdered over a legal case?_

If she were smart, Marty knew, she'd have her pad out, working on her notes from the interview. But she couldn't focus, couldn't force her mind to stop reacting and start organizing facts. She had no idea where to go from here.

This wasn't the way she'd been raised.

She took a sharp breath, reaching for the pad and flicking the switch, but Veta broke into her thoughts. _"Marty, incoming call. Blocked number."_

Oh, good. A distraction. "Location trace?"

"_Incoming GPS is disabled. Should I decline?"_

"No, answer it. But turn on the recorder." She waited for the double-click in her earpiece. "This is Marty Castle."

"You shouldn't have looked for him."

She sat up straighter. "Who is this?"

"It doesn't matter. You've been talking to Joe Pulgatti."

"Possibly." She'd been a reporter for too long, a cop's daughter even longer. She wasn't about to give away anything she didn't have to.

"Don't try to deny it," said the voice on the other end. Male, she noted, probably somewhat older than she was. "Not when you're still in the car on the way back."

"And just how do you think you know where I am?"

"Rentals have GPS in them. Don't try to change the subject. We're talking about Pulgatti."

"If you insist." She checked the pad to make sure it was in audio-input mode, synced it to her phone so she'd have a version of the recording on it. "What about him?"

"Your grandmother snooped. She got stabbed. Your mom snooped. She got shot. Doesn't that tell you anything?"

Well, that answered one question, at least: her grandmother had apparently been murdered over this case. "It tells me that there's more going on here than a simple case of murder."

"Stupid girl," the caller chided. "It should tell you that you ought to leave well enough alone."

"Who would care about that?"

"The kind of people who can make accidents happen when nosy reporters strike out alone in rental cars. Particularly when they have the last name you do."

Her eyes fell to the car's readouts. Everything looked normal. "I don't respond well to threats."

"This isn't a threat. This is a warning. Leave the Pulgatti case alone." The phone line clicked and went silent.

"Veta," said Marty after a long breath. "Can you tell me anything about that call?"

"_Sorry. Blocked line, disabled GPS. No further information."_

"Did you get the recording?"

"_Line interference was present."_

Damn. She'd have to hope she'd successfully captured it on her pad. "Okay. Download the file on my pad and – what the _hell?_"

The car had abruptly switched off and was slowing down. Marty thumbed the ignition. No luck, but fortunately, the steering wheel had unlocked automatically. Grabbing it, she guided the car to the side of the road before it stopped completely. Unbuckling the harness, she ducked under the dash to see if there was any indication of what might have happened.

Everything looked normal.

"Veta," she said. "Contact the rental company."

No response.

"Veta? Status check."

Still nothing. She unclipped the earpiece and looked at it. It looked normal, although the status indicators had gone dark. She tapped the switch. No response.

Her pad had shut down too.

_Oh, great._

Marty put the pad back in her bag and got out of the car to open the hood as a distress signal. This was a busy enough highway; someone would come along sooner or later. Returning to the driver's seat, she settled in and tried to breathe normally.

_A warning_, the caller had said. He was just trying to scare her. She was going to be fine.

* * *

She walked her bike out of the rental car facility right into the middle of evening rush hour. Automatically, Marty reached up and touched her earpiece. "Veta, route check."

Oh, right. Silence.

Shaking her head, Marty mounted the bike and directed it down the sidewalk. Let the cops ticket her today; she had enough other things on her mind not to care.

Her pad had been completely wiped. She'd discovered it on the ride back into the city, once a passer-by had stopped and called the rental company's recovery center for her.

Just how had they done that?

_You can wipe my pad_, she thought defiantly, _but you can't wipe my memory_. She just needed to get home and re-record everything. She might also call Joe Pulgatti about a second interview; she'd forgotten to get a release from him anyway.

"For goodness' sake. Marty! _Stop!_"

The sound of her name got her attention just before she would have crashed into the person standing directly in front of her on the sidewalk. Once she'd stopped, she took a sharp breath. "That's dangerous, standing in front of a bicycle's path like that."

"Only when you don't know if they're going to stop."

"Like I said," answered Marty. "Dangerous. What are you doing here, Cari?"

"You've been gone a long time, so I came to look for you." Carita McManus' beat was the society pages, and she was several years older, but somehow they'd ended up becoming friends in the pot boiler that was the _Ledger_'s main newsroom. Marty had left word with her about her trip upstate.

"Car broke down."

Cari pointed at the earpiece. "You couldn't call?"

"No, actually. My phone's out too."

"What on earth could cause that?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. But I intend to find out."

"Do you think it's related to the interview? How'd that go, anyway?"

"What is this, twenty questions?" The belligerent words were out of her mouth before she realized it. "I'm sorry. It's been a long day."

Cari folded her arms, and her dark eyes narrowed. "Sounds like it. Want to get a drink?"

"At risk of sounding rude, can I beg off? I'd…really like to just go home and unwind." Not to mention writing down everything she could remember, as quickly as possible.

"Okay, that's fair. But you might want to make sure you're at work on time tomorrow morning."

"Reston's on the warpath again?"

"He doesn't like losing a reporter. Why don't I call him and let him know I found you?"

She took her earpiece off and slipped it into her pocket. That way she'd remember not to automatically reach for it. "Thanks. Tell him I'll call him when I get home. And we will have that drink tomorrow or the next day. I'm buying."

"Sounds like a deal. Don't ride your bike on the sidewalk, okay?"

Marty laughed as she guided her bike onto the street where it belonged.

* * *

Despite her words to Cari, she found herself walking into bars later that night. She found him on the fifth try. He was on stage, performing. Marty ordered a drink and sat down; it was only half an hour before last call.

An hour later, the bar was almost empty and she was still waiting. Sighing, she finished the drink and made her way forward.

Jay looked down from packing up his drum set. "Hey, big sister."

"Hey, little brother. Working late tonight?"

"No, I'm done. Saw you come in. Wondered how long it would take you to come up here."

She chuckled, although there wasn't much humor behind it. "Haven't seen you in a while."

He hopped down from the stage, landing beside her with a loud _thud_. "Yeah, I know. Hey, I'm sorry I missed that thing a couple weeks ago –"

Marty found the nearest table and sat back down. "Come on. You know better than that."

He shrugged and sat down beside her, his eyes finding the empty glass she'd left a few tables away. "You got any more of whatever that was?"

"You haven't already had enough?"

"Not so much." He looked away.

She leaned forward. "So you're sober?"

Now he turned to look at her, and in the dim light she could see that his eyes were clearer than they usually were. "I haven't missed any gigs lately."

_Mostly sober_, she decided. "Just other stuff."

"Look, I _said_ I was sorry!"

"That's not what I was talking about."

"What, then?"

"I had a bit of an adventure this afternoon," she said. "I'm wondering if you can give me a hand figuring out what happened."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. What could kill a solectric, my pad and my phone all at the same time without being visible or doing anything else?"

He leaned back and considered her for a moment. "I take it you were the one driving?"

She nodded. "It was a rental."

"Directed EMP, then, maybe. Probably fixed on the car's GPS signal. Any idea who did it?"

"No. They called me right before, with line interference and a location block, and then cut everything off as soon as we hung up."

Jay let out a low whistle. "That's pretty serious. How'd you get back?"

"A Good Samaritan came by and called the rental company for me."

"Sounds like it all worked out fine, then."

Marty shrugged. "I'm not hurt. And I was on the job, so I had the auto-backup on." She'd been delighted when she'd discovered that some of her notes had transferred to her home server before the phone call and subsequent – what had he called it? A directed EM pulse?

"Still, that's not easy to do. I hope you're being careful."

"I am. That's why I'm coming to you about this." She leaned forward. "I need your help with something. Quietly."

"Something like what?"

"I need to look at some financials."

His eyes narrowed. "Whose?"

Marty closed her eyes. "Mom and Dad's."

He peered at her. "Didn't you turn twenty-five in February? Or March, or whatever month you chose for celebrating this year?" She'd had the unusual luck of being born on February 29, a day that didn't occur every year, so Marty usually had to pick a day to celebrate her birthday.

"What does that have to do with it? You turned twenty-five in October."

"You came into the second third of your trust then. So why do you need to look at Rick and Kate's accounts now?"

"I wish you wouldn't call them that," she snapped. "They're your parents too."

"Don't try to distract me. What's going on?"

"I'm –" she stopped abruptly. How was she going to explain this? "I hope it's a wild goose chase, honestly. But…I had the car because I'd gone upstate to see a guy, an older one. He's living in a home now. It's a nice one, and based on its web site it comes with a pretty hefty price tag. But he said he wasn't paying the bills."

"What does that have to do with Ri – with their financials?"

"Because," said Marty slowly, "he implied that Dad might be the one who's paying for it."

Jay sat up abruptly. "What the hell? Who did you go see?"

"Confidential source, working on a story."

"Oh, no," he said. "No you don't, Marty. You've got to give me more than that if you want me to break into those records. Make it worth possibly getting caught again."

"Not this time." She met his eyes squarely. "The call I got before the car was disabled? It was someone warning me off investigating this. I'm not going to pull you in too."

"As if asking me to hack into those files isn't pulling me in!"

"Not if you don't know any more than what I've told you. If you get caught, give up my name. You know as well as I do that they'll just slap you on the wrist if you cooperate."

"What about you? What if I do get caught? Trust me, I've been there. You do not want to have those kinds of problems."

"I'm a big girl," she answered. "But I just want a look. No transfers, no funny business. If you don't actually do anything, nobody's likely even going to notice."

"Easy for you to say." But he was going to do it; she could see it in his expression. "What, exactly, are you looking for?"

"Isn't it obvious? Payments to the home. It's called Bright Senior Living." She fished around in her coat, found a pen, and wrote the facility name on a napkin. "I don't know how often they'd be made. For all I know, it was done as a lump sum deal. And I'm really hoping you don't find anything at all."

"Why is that?"

She slid the napkin across the table. "Because of what I haven't told you."

* * *

_I have no idea whether or not electromagnetic pulses can be directed in the way I depict in this chapter. Hopefully, though, I've given enough clues by now to show that this story takes place a few decades into the future (the exact year will be given in a later chapter). So if that technology's not possible today, it could be by then._

_Also, if you catch the source of the senior facility's name, we should talk and soon. It only took me two episodes to become a fan of __that_, and it's not because of who played the main character (although I'm not complaining about it either!)  



	3. Chapter 3

_Castle_ is the copyrighted property of ABC Studios. This fiction item is intended for entertainment purposes only. No compensation has been received or will be accepted for it, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended or should be implied.

* * *

**Family Secrets  
**_Chapter Three_

* * *

The numerals on the wall clock rolled over to 9:00 just as she shoved her bicycle helmet into her desk drawer the next morning. Cari brought a cup of coffee over to her desk while she was logging on to her terminal. "Oh, thank you."

"Looks like you had an interesting night after all. Or else you're just back to your Castle's-never-on-time habits."

Marty's hair was still damp. She ran her fingers through it in an effort to smooth away the helmet's effects. "No. I told you I'm working on that. I was just up later than I meant to be."

"Really? Even after you ditched me? Must've gotten a call from that cop you keep _saying_ is like your brother."

Why was everyone suddenly asking her about Rory? Yes, they'd been spending more time together lately, but that didn't necessarily have to mean anything. "I did. We were supposed to have breakfast this morning. But I blew him off."

"For who?"

"My actual brother, last night." She wrapped an elastic band around her renewed ponytail. "How's Hurricane Bill this morning?"

"Gale force. You're going to need that." Cari indicated the coffee. "Go on. But you and I are going to talk later. Count on that."

Marty smiled. Trading quips with her friend always made her feel better. "Gives me something to look forward to."

Reston was frowning at something on his terminal when she tapped the doorsill. The frown deepened when he looked up and saw her. "What's this I hear about you getting stranded on the highway yesterday?"

"Rental broke down." She pulled out her pad. "Something went screwy with the electronics, but I was able to recover part of my notes and remember the rest of them."

"Rental broke down," he repeated, pointing at a chair. She had to move a pile of paper aside before she could sit down. "I suppose you were careful to check it before you went out."

"Come on, Bill. I'm a cop's daughter."

"That doesn't make you invulnerable."

"No. But I got back, okay?"

"Was it worth it?"

"Yes," she said, handing him the pad so that he could look over her notes. "On a couple levels, actually. I want to use this Joe Pulgatti as the case study in my story."

He scanned over what she'd written so far. "You get a release?"

"No." She'd been too rattled at the implications involving her parents, which she had carefully left out of this version of her interview notes. Those weren't going into the story. "But I can email it, and do any other follow-ups via phone."

"Good." He handed the pad back. "This is only your first investigative piece, Castle. It's not supposed to be a dangerous one."

"Dangerous?"

"Rental cars don't usually die on you. McManus said something about you got a phone call before it went out, and that you lost your other electronics too?"

Had she mentioned the threatening phone call to Cari? She must have. "Yeah, I did. It was location-blocked and had line interference, though."

"In other words, they didn't want to be found. Like I said, this isn't supposed to be dangerous."

"I didn't go out looking for a problem. But I know how to take care of myself."

"I know you do. Just be careful. You can always pick a different example case if this one gets too hot." He tapped a couple of commands into his terminal. "Any fallout from your Mom's retirement announcement?"

"You'd be the first to know. Though she's not actually leaving until the end of the year."

"You think you could write a retrospective on her career for right around then?"

She shifted uncomfortably. The brief article attributed to "Staff" hadn't been difficult, but it was little more than a fleshed-out press release. Writing a comprehensive piece on her own mother would require going a lot more in-depth; it possibly would even require official interviews of people she'd known her entire life.

_And right now_, she thought, _I already have awkward questions for some of them._ "Wouldn't that be better assigned to someone who isn't related to her?"

"You don't think you can do it? You're forgetting I know who ghost-wrote that book your father put out about his life at the precinct."

She sighed. "I'll do it if you assign it. But that…was before I was working the cop beat, so it's not quite the same. And Dad wrote the majority of his autobiography. I just edited for grammar and tone, stylistic type stuff."

He studied her for a long moment, causing her to wonder if anything was showing in her expression. She'd spent a long time developing a poker face, but it wasn't perfect.

"All right," said Reston. "I'll assign it to someone else. For a price."

"How much?"

"Deep background. You fact-check it before it runs, make sure there's nothing significant screwed up or missing. We don't want anything left out."

"Bill, my Dad left a lot of things out of _Family of Twelve_. Even I don't know what all of it was. Parents don't tell their children everything."

"Take it or leave it, Castle. You're the best source I've got."

Marty took a breath. "Fine, I'll take it. Provided you assign it to someone who's not out to do an exposé. My mother is not a target."

"We'll leave that to the _Enquirer_. Now. What's on deck for today? You sticking around the newsroom for a change?"

"Only if there's news." She tapped a command into the pad and called up the list of interviews she had scheduled for that afternoon.

* * *

Ninety minutes later, she took her coffee out of the office microwave and glanced over at Cari's desk. Her friend was gone, probably out on the job. Making her way back to her own desk, Marty sat down and reached for the terminal keyboard.

The screen cleared and she frowned. She'd run into Reston's office so fast that she hadn't done anything except log in. Yet her notes file for the secret pardons piece was open on the screen. She'd put some questions and ideas into it last night just before bed, but she hadn't instructed Veta to sync those last-minute ideas to her work terminal yet.

Or had she? She had made sure that the pad was up-to-date in preparation for her meeting. "Veta," she asked, slipping her earpiece on, "when did you do the last terminal sync?"

"_Three o'clock this morning,"_ answered the assistant. _"Scheduled auto-backup."_

She'd been out with Jay then. "Which files were updated on the work network?"

"_One file: pardons article notes."_

"Did you include a command for the file to be open upon my login at work?"

There was a brief pause. _"No such command found."_

So had someone been snooping on her terminal? Here? At the _Ledger_? Journalistic ethics were sometimes a bit…elastic…but that sort of behavior wouldn't be tolerated.

Using the keyboard to be safe, she changed the terminal password. Then she changed her screen back to the open file, scrolling to the bottom so she could pick up where she'd left off.

The recent notes weren't present.

She hadn't gone to bed _that_ late, had she? "Veta, pull the access logs for the pardons article notes and display them on my work terminal."

After a moment, the file came up and her eyes widened. She'd expected to see several lines of nearly-unintelligible codes. She hadn't expected to see a single line of English text.

_We warned you yesterday. Don't make us do it again._

Her lips thinned and she reached for the keyboard. Fortunately, the talk in her boss' office had reminded her of all the things that had been deleted from the file. The memories were relatively fresh, after all. She could key the notes in again. All she'd lost was time.

* * *

"Let me make sure I understand this correctly," said Marty. "The normal procedure for a parole case is to interview the inmate, review pertinent documentation, and speak with anyone in the community who has a direct interest in the case. The 'hearing' is actually the inmate interview. Do I have that correct?"

Her surroundings were impressive. Senator Edward Carroll's home was in one of the nicer sections of Queens, and he clearly had spared no expense for his study.

"That's right," he said softly, seated in one of two comfortable, leather-covered stuffed chairs. Marty was in the other one, with her pad and stylus out. For this interview, she'd slipped into a conservative suit.

It was a deliberate move, meant to de-emphasize her age; the man's reputation as being dismissive toward young women was well-known. "Thank you, sir. You were the chairman of the Board of Paroles in 2015, when Joe Pulgatti came up. Do you remember that one? My understanding is that the hearing request was granted."

"Pulgatti," said the older man thoughtfully, though his eyes stayed on Marty's face. "Yes, I remember him. He'd gone up in '92 for murder."

She nodded. "That's the one. I filed a FOIL request for a hearing transcript and was told the proceedings had been sealed. By you, Mr. Senator. Was there a reason for that?"

"You don't waste time, do you, Miss Castle?"

"No," she answered in the same soft tone he'd been using. "I don't. I also know when someone's trying to evade a question."

"And I know when someone asks me a question but already knows the answer. If I sealed those proceedings, the reason for the seal would be as confidential as the hearing itself."

"What if I were to ask Mr. Pulgatti?"

"You mean you haven't already?"

"I have," she said. Twice, actually; she'd called him earlier about the release she'd forgotten to request. He'd agreed to it, and expressed concern over the "car trouble" she'd had on the way back from the personal interview. _Be careful, honey. You could be messing with a lot more than you realize._

_I'm sure I am_, she'd answered, giving him her _Ledger_ email address.

_Do me a favor? Let me know what you find out. Indulge an old man's curiosity._

She'd agreed. Marty blinked and pulled herself back into the moment, covering herself by pretending to check her notes. "He claims he was never interviewed. He was just told he was a Violent Felony Offender who'd reached his six-sevenths point."

"He might have been."

"His sentence was for life, Senator Carroll. Even using a presumptive forty years, that wouldn't have made him eligible for release any earlier than 2024. Yet he was paroled nine years before that." She tapped her pad for emphasis. "And the original sentence was handed down before Jenna's Law was signed."

"Is there a question in there?"

"Yes." She rotated the pad to show the document she'd called up before the interview. "Why was Joe Pulgatti paroled after serving only twenty-three years of a sentence to life _without parole_? Using a law that went into effect six years _after_ his incarceration?"

"You only have his word that he was automatically paroled."

"Yes, because the hearings and findings were sealed. That's why I'm asking you, sir. Does your statement mean he was paroled for some other reason?"

Carroll's eyes hardened. "You said it yourself: the six-sevenths rule wouldn't have applied to him."

"Answer the question, please."

"The records are sealed, Miss Castle."

"Why?" She kept her gaze squarely on his. "Why did you seal them, Mr. Senator?"

"Why don't you ask your parents?"

That threw her off her rhythm and she blinked. Crap. She took a quick breath. "What?"

"Your parents," repeated the senator. There was the hint of a smug smile on his face now. "Richard Castle and Kate Beckett. Why don't you ask them why Joe Pulgatti was paroled?"

She took another breath, reaching for equilibrium. "I'm asking you."

"But you already know the answer, don't you? You don't need to ask me."

Marty opened her mouth and closed it again. She wasn't about to admit that she hadn't spoken with her parents about this. Not now. But why did it always seem to come back to them?

Just what had Joe Pulgatti and Johanna Beckett gotten tangled up in?

The interview ended quickly after that; Carroll was gracious but firm, and she'd lost too much control of the situation. This wasn't going to get her any information about the parole hearing, and she hadn't even had the chance to bring up the later Petition for Executive Clemency.

She'd have to try another angle.

* * *

A week. It'd been a week and the article deadline was still there. She'd finally given in and made a couple of phone calls to set up interviews about another one of the test cases. Joe Pulgatti's story might not make it into this article after all, except as a footnote.

Marty frowned at her terminal. It wasn't particularly late, but the newsroom had already fallen dead quiet. New Year's Eve was always either a big news day or a slow news day.

She'd come in when an email had come through indicating that at least part of her appeal on the freedom-of-information request had been granted. There had, in fact, been a hearing, and the Board of Paroles had provided her with a list of those who had either testified or sent a statement.

Her parents were on it. The hearing had been just a few months after they'd gotten married.

Their names weren't the only familiar ones in front of her.

She scrubbed her eyes and stared at the list again. No, she wasn't imagining those names: James Beckett. Detective Javier Esposito. Captain Victoria Gates. Detective Kevin Ryan.

There were two another names, too, ones she didn't recognize. She highlighted it and tapped a command into the terminal. "Veta, run database searches on Evan Howard and Michael Smith – the ones highlighted here – and put the results into the pardons article notes."

"_Okay. Time frame and parameters?"_

She hesitated. Exactly what was she looking for, anyway? Her right hand drifted to her left wrist, and she traced the edge of her grandfather's old watch. Her mother had worn it while he was alive – she'd never explained why she had it – and then given it to her as a memento when he'd died. She'd been in college at the time.

"General background, public demographic data. Known residences and employers," she answered after a moment. "Focus on two time frames: 1990 through 1994, and 2012 through 2016."

_It's not just you, Grandpa_, she thought, swallowing around a lump in her throat a she re-read his name on the list of statements. _It's all of you. Why did this case matter so much, and if so, why have I never heard about it before?_

* * *

The party was in full swing, and like most of her parents' parties it was popular and noisy. Marty couldn't have skipped it without triggering questions, but tonight the crowd was wearing on her more than usual. She quietly slipped upstairs, through her old bedroom to the balcony off the second floor, and breathed in the cold air. Closing her eyes, she listened to the traffic in the distance and tried to clear her mind.

"Hey, M.J."

Despite her parents being one of the sources of her turmoil, she found herself smiling at the use of her byline. "Hey, Mom."

"Had a little too much?"

She didn't open her eyes. "Don't worry. Bike's at home. I took a cab."

"That's not what I meant." Her mother joined her at the railing. "I meant the party."

She shrugged, feeling the uneasiness crowd back into her mind. "Big groups never really have been my thing."

"Mine either. But your father and brother love it."

Marty seized the opportunity to change the subject. "I know, and it's good to see that Jay actually showed up for this one. Seeing as it's also your official retirement party."

Kate laughed, though the sound was thin in the cold night air. "Open bar."

"That's awfully cynical."

"It's true, though." There was a rustle of fabric. "You look upset."

She opened her eyes, but didn't turn away from the railing. This brownstone was the home where she'd grown up, though she was aware that her parents had actually bought it while she was a toddler, just after Jay had been formally adopted. It was comforting to stand here. "I do?"

"Yes. And you've been distracted tonight. Is something going on?"

_Yes, Mom_, she thought. _It looks like you were part of a cover-up thirty years ago. You want to tell me about that?_

"It's…work related," she said out loud. "I didn't know you could tell."

"I'm your mother," said Kate. "And you only moved out this past summer, so you've not changed that much. Is it something specific, or just work in general? A story, maybe?"

Somehow, she resisted the urge to blurt everything out, covering it with a shrug. "Something like that, yeah."

"I take it you don't want to talk about it."

Marty couldn't keep the soft snort from coming out, but she managed to make it sound like a harsh breath. "I can't."

"You know I can keep my mouth shut."

"It's not that," she said, grateful for the chance to be honest even if she knew her mother would misunderstand the statement. "I just…I don't know what to think right now. I've found out some things that were…" she trailed off, trying to find the right words. "Surprising to learn. And there've been some incidents."

Her mother squeezed her hand warmly, but her tone became firm. "You should always take threats seriously. You know that."

"Relax, Mom." She returned the squeeze. "They're not threats. Not exactly. It's just that…I think someone doesn't want me to write this story."

"The one about the pardons?"

"Yeah."

"Which, of course, means you're doubly determined to write it."

Marty couldn't help it. That made her laugh. "You really do still know me."

Her mother smiled in response, but sobered quickly. "Do you have any idea who's behind these 'incidents'?"

How was she supposed to answer that without giving herself away? "No."

"You want me to look into it? I still have some pull, even if my last day was yesterday."

"I'm fine, Mom. Really."

"Okay." The hand over hers squeezed again. "Come on back down and rejoin us when you've had a chance to catch your breath. But don't make it too long. The ball's dropping soon."

* * *

She made it, but just barely. The warmth and noise hit her as soon as she got to the bottom of the stairs. In the back, she could see an image of Times Square on a projection screen, and people were starting to pair off.

Marty sighed inwardly. She hadn't liked coming without a date, but most of her male friends had had plans of their own for this evening. _And is that just a convenient excuse, Marty?_

An arm wrapped around her waist. "Hey, big sister. Don't be such a wallflower. C'mon over here."

She let Jay lead her further into the room. They ended up at the piano, where she slid down onto the bench to his right. There was a fresh-looking drink next to the music holder. "Is that yours?"

"Yeah."

With a quirk of her lips, she picked it up and took a swallow.

He laughed. "You can get cooties that way, you know."

"Brothers don't count." Surprisingly, she could just barely taste the alcohol.

"Is that a compliment or an insult?"

"Depends on who's asking."

He chuckled and put his hands on the keyboard, doodling out a tune she didn't recognize. Knowing him, it probably wasn't anything specific. Around them, the crowd began chanting. "3…2…1…_Happy New Year!_"

Jay smoothly segued into a tune she did recognize: "Auld Lang Syne." Around them, amidst the noisemakers, sparklers and kisses, people started singing. "I didn't know this was a gig," she murmured underneath the noise.

"It's not. But drunks are so cute."

"I suppose you would know about that." Despite the weak drink he had now, he was no doubt already nicely loosened up himself.

"Oh, be nice. Happy New Year." He finished the song and leaned over. His breath was warm on her cheek as he kissed it, and she realized there was almost no scent of alcohol on his breath.

"Did you pop a mint?" she asked as she returned the kiss.

He looked confused. "No. Why?"

"You…smell different."

He winked and picked up his drink, only taking a sip large enough to wet his lips. "It's time to make a few resolutions, don't you think?"

The smile on her face was driven as much from awe as it was from happiness. "Oh, my God. Jay. That's wonderful."

"Say that again when I've made it to sixty days." He started another song on the piano and she rolled her eyes in response. Back when they were growing up and taking lessons, they'd both despised this one.

"Oh, don't make faces. Do this for me? Please?"

"All right. Bring it back around to the start." Straightening up, she put her hands on the keys, listened to the harmony and picked up the melody on cue. It was an upbeat song, from an old movie, and fit right in with a New Year's Eve crowd.

He slid his gaze over after a moment. "You sound like you've been practicing."

"Way too busy. This one's just burned too deeply into my brain for me to scrub it out."

"She complains about playing it, yet she agrees to do it the minute she hears it." He added a couple of extra flourishes to his side.

Marty's lips quirked, but she kept up with the slight alteration his improvisation required. "You're the professional musician. I'm just a reporter."

"Point stands." They played together for a minute, his foot operating the pedal. "I'm surprised you're even here tonight. Plenty of crime scenes to cover on New Year's Eve."

"Yes, and I'm sure I'll hear all about them tomorrow." Marty dropped her left hand to her lap momentarily, as Jay's part came up to the higher side of the piano. "Actually, I'm surprised to see you here."

"I needed to talk to you about those bank records."

Her hands splayed involuntarily, causing her to lose the rhythm and hit a couple of wrong keys. "You found something?"

"Stay on point. Song's not over." He repeated the last few bars he'd played.

She dropped back in. "You didn't answer my question."

"I will in a little bit. We need to talk about this in private, and that's not here."

He was right; the crowd was still as thick as it had been before midnight. Marty took a deep breath and concentrated on her playing. Jay was taking things easy, in deference to their skill gap, but it still took attention to keep up.

"Well, if it isn't the Class of '34."

Speaking of paying attention. "Hey, Harlan."

"Aren't a couple people missing, though?"

They finished the song and Jay looked up, away from her. "Liz is still in Africa, and Rory's not the kind to whine and look for a replacement when he pulls New Year's Eve duty."

"Not that it would work. Seniority has its privileges." Harlan took another swig of champagne and laughed. "I guess that means it's just you two. The brother and sister who aren't twins, but still graduated from high school the same year."

"It's not unheard-of," said Marty. Beside her, she felt Jay stiffen the way he always did when that was mentioned. She put a hand on his knee to calm him and continued, changing the subject. "What are you on the trail of these days, Harlan?

"Same old, same old. Computer hackers, cybercrime." His eyes fell on Jay, and this time the laugh became a giggle. "You should come consult for us sometime. Bet you'd have some ideas."

"I might," said Jay. The strain in his voice was obvious now. He got to his feet and picked up his drink. "But not tonight. If you'll excuse me, I think I need to get some air."

"What's his problem?" asked Harlan after Jay strode off.

Marty stood up and pushed past him to follow. "There's teasing and there's taunting. I think you've had a little too much tonight to know the difference. But communication never was your strong point, was it?"

_Though this time_, she thought, _you were more helpful than you realized_. He'd given them the perfect opening to go somewhere more private.

* * *

_Since we're dealing with State law instead of Federal law, Marty references New York's Freedom of Information Law (FOIL) instead of the Federal Freedom of Information Act (FOIA). Jenna's Law is a popular name for New York's Sentencing Reform Act of 1998, which is still in effect as of 2013._

_There are any number of jazzy, upbeat four-hand piano pieces that Marty and Jay might have been playing at the party, but for the one I had in mind, check out "Oho Megam Vandhadho (Rain Song)" on YouTube._

_And for those that asked: the reference in Chapter Two was to the very short-lived Fox series, "Drive," which starred Nathan Fillion and Kristin Lehman (Serena Kaye from 5x04 "Eye of the Beholder"). It's available on various streaming sources and can be watched in an afternoon, though I'll warn you that due to its cancellation it ends on a cliffhanger._


	4. Chapter 4

_Castle_ is the copyrighted property of ABC Studios. This fiction item is intended for entertainment purposes only. No compensation has been received or will be accepted for it, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended or should be implied.

* * *

**Family Secrets**  
_Chapter Four_

* * *

She folded her arms and leaned against the wall, inhaling the familiar scents of her father's study. "So, no payments to Bright Senior Living?"

Jay paced around the middle of the room, though he was careful to avoid the desk. They'd both developed that habit very early in life, after being on the receiving end of scoldings from both Alexis and Kate. "No. Not to that."

"Then what? You found something. I can tell."

He sighed. "There were some lump-sum transactions from about ten years ago, as if he was trying to fund something, but I lost the money trail after it ran through both Asia and the Middle East."

Marty subtracted years in her head. "That's about the time Mr. Pulgatti went into the facility. So it's possible he is paying that bill, even if it isn't directly."

"Yeah."

"So what's eating you?" she asked. "You're too wired for that to be what's bothering you."

He paced over and stood in front of one of the bookshelves, though she guessed he likely wasn't seeing any of the books. "About three months ago, Rick started going to the doctor."

"That's not unusual. He goes a few times a year, in order to keep an eye on things." Her father had made an amazing recovery – he'd regained the ability to write only a year after he'd been attacked – but it was impossible for anyone to survive the kind of injuries he'd had without lingering effects. She couldn't remember a time he hadn't seen doctors on a regular basis.

"These weren't checkups. He's seeing high-level specialists, having things done. He's even spent some time in the hospital, from the looks of it."

She frowned. "Dad was in the hospital and they didn't tell us?"

"In late October, yes. Didn't you say he was out of town for meetings around then?"

She shrugged. "Yeah. He went to Baltimore to consult on another movie."

Jay turned to face her. "What movie? Has he had anything optioned recently?"

"No, but that doesn't mean they're not working on something. It sometimes takes years before a script makes it through development."

"So if it's still in development, why did he go to Baltimore and not L.A.?"

"I don't know," she said slowly. What was he getting at? "Maybe they were on location."

"You're the expert on his books. Has he ever set a scene there?"

She blew her breath out. "No. But movies make one location into another one all the time."

"In _Baltimore_, Marty?"

"Why not Baltimore?" This time she asked her question out loud. "What are you getting at?"

"There were transactions to Johns Hopkins Hospital that week. Six figures' worth, almost seven."

"Johns Hopkins? But there are plenty of good hospitals here in New York."

"Exactly." His expression was fierce now. "Why would he go there if he could get care here? Unless he wanted to see a specific specialist of some type?"

When had all the air gone out of the room? Marty had to take several breaths in order to get enough oxygen. "Maybe it was just for testing. They'd tell us if something were actually wrong."

"You think so? Like they told us about those lump sum transactions ten years ago? Those _were_ seven figures, big sister."

Her head was spinning. The urge to sit down was powerful, but long years of not sitting in the desk chair had made for an unbreakable habit. She took the back of it for support instead. "What do those have to do with a trip to Baltimore?"

"If Rick didn't mention paying out seven figures ten years ago, why would he mention paying out six more recently?" He came over so that he could face her directly. "There's no other way to explain it. They're hiding something, and not just about this guy you interviewed."

She couldn't meet his eyes, turning away to stare out the window. "They wouldn't do that. Not if it was important. They'd tell us if something was going on."

"You really want to think that, don't you?" Jay's voice had gone soft. "Don't you think the timing for Kate's retirement is starting to look awfully suspicious when you compare it with all these medical procedures? She's sixty-two. That's kind of early."

"She's been eligible for years. The end of the year is a good time –"

"You know better than that. I don't think it's a coincidence." He looked her in the eye. "And neither would you, if it were anyone other than Rick and Kate."

She closed her eyes. As much as she wanted to, she couldn't deny that he was making perfect sense. "I don't know. We're probably still missing some important piece of the puzzle."

"Marty." He wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "Marty, I know this isn't what you want to hear. But just because they're our parents doesn't mean they're perfect. They have things they don't talk about with other people. Everyone does."

"There are secrets and there are secrets. What would they have to hide?"

He wrapped his other arm around her, pulling her into an embrace, and she realized she was shaking and had tears in her eyes. "Hang in there, big sister. We're going to figure this out."

"Oh, so you're a part of my investigation now?"

"You couldn't keep me away." He held her like that, stroking her hair, until she managed to get control. Now was not the time to lose control. If there was going to be a confrontation, it wouldn't be tonight. It couldn't be. Not when she didn't know all the answers. Not when they were still in the middle of a party.

* * *

They came out of the study just in time; their father was outside the door, one hand reaching toward the handle. "Dad."

"Marty," he said in greeting. Then, seeing her companion, he continued. "Jay."

Brown eyes met blue ones, and the challenge was clear. "Rick."

She sighed inwardly, preparing to referee, but thankfully, neither of them seemed inclined to push anything tonight. Instead, her father turned back toward her. "I saw you two go in there. Is everything okay?"

"Yeah," she answered, trying to work her way between them without being too obvious. "Things are fine."

"Are you sure? You look like something's wrong." His eyes flicked back over to Jay in an obvious accusation.

Jay drew himself up. He'd always hated his relative lack of height within their family, even though he was actually about average when compared with the general population. "She said things are fine."

There was a long, uncomfortable pause as their father looked from one to the other. "Okay," he finally replied. "I, ah…it just occurred to me that I haven't had a dance with my favorite girl tonight, and I really need to fix that before the party winds down."

She looked around and forced a smile. "Well, what are you doing talking to me then? Alexis must be around here somewhere."

Oh. Bad move, mentioning her sister's name around Jay. Beside her, he stiffened even more. She wrapped a hand around his wrist, stroking the skin to soothe him.

"All right, one of my favorite girls." He indicated the middle of the living room, where several couples were still dancing despite it being at least half an hour into the new year. "Shall we?"

Jay squeezed her hand and then turned away, so she nodded and let him lead her out. It had been a while since she'd danced with her father. It had been even longer since she'd stood in the same place with both him and her brother. "Thank you," she said quietly.

"For what?"

"Not…starting something. Or allowing something to start."

He sighed. "You should know better than that. Was he giving you a hard time in there?"

"_You_ should know better than _that_." She followed him as he led her through a spin. "I'm surprised you even invited him."

"He's always welcome here. It's up to him whether he wants to take us up on it. Remember, he missed last month's get-together."

"Possibly because there weren't as many people."

"Or as much alcohol."

"That's not fair, Dad," she said, although it was half-hearted. As much as she hated to admit it to anyone else, Jay did deserve the comment.

"You know the rules," he said. "Drinking's okay, but not to the point of – level that –" he sighed and took a long breath, though his feet kept rhythm with the music. "When it gets in the way."

"I know," she answered. "But sometimes I think he'd do better with encouragement instead of criticism. He's doing just fine tonight."

"I guess he is, isn't he?"

Should she tell him about the New Year's Resolution? It was wonderful news, and might even help lead them back across the chasm that had developed over the past few years. But what if Jay had just made it up on the spur of the moment? He'd been known to do such things before.

Marty took a sharp breath. Now wasn't the time to talk about that.

_And what do you want to talk about?_ asked a voice inside her head. _Isn't it time you asked what's going on? Or are you too afraid of the answer?_

She squelched that line of thought, focusing on the sights and sounds of the party.

"Let's not talk about Jay," her father said gently after a long look at her changing expressions. "Let's talk about you. Are you sure everything's okay? Kate said that you went upstairs to get some air a little while ago."

"I wish you wouldn't keep asking me if I'm all right. It's just been a long day." No, she really didn't want to ask questions right now, she decided. It had already been a bit too difficult of a night. "And you know I don't really like crowds."

"Okay," he said, pulling her a little closer. She closed her eyes for a few moments, letting herself get lost in the familiar smell of her father and the steps of the dance. He'd insisted on teaching her himself one night when she was ten, claiming he needed to practice physical coordination.

Her mother had laughed and turned the music up. _You just can't ever admit to being an ordinary Dad, can you, Castle?_

_Not when I've got so many extraordinary women around me_, he'd shot back.

Marty smiled at the memory. She felt her father shift slightly. "What's so funny?"

"Not something funny," she answered. "Something sweet. I was remembering the first time we did this. You were a good teacher."

His chuckle was low, but sincere. "You were a quick learner."

Smiling, she opened her eyes to turn toward him. They could have _this_ conversation.

But that was when she saw it. It was well-hidden underneath his hair, so well hidden that she doubted she would have noticed had she not been standing so close. But the thin, dark pink line across his scalp was unmistakable.

A surgical scar. One that was far too fresh to date back to the procedures he'd had when she was still a baby.

She stumbled back clumsily, nearly tripping over her heels. He tightened his hands over hers, trying to pull her back. "Hey, easy. I've got you."

"No –" she yanked free. "It's not –"

"Marty! What's wrong?"

"You –" Air. She needed air. Now. She turned and fled through the crowd, intentionally choosing a route that took her through multiple groups of people so that he couldn't follow easily.

It seemed to take forever to reach the front door. Insanely grateful when she finally got there, she flung it open to escape and then drew up short, gasping in surprise.

On the other side of the door, hand raised as if reaching for the knob, stood Rory Esposito.

"Marty? Are you okay?"

Not trusting herself to speak, she tried to push past him, but he caught her arm and held her still, pulling the door closed. "Where are you going?"

"Home," she muttered, pulling against him even though she knew it wouldn't work. Rory trained at the precinct nearly every day.

"Without your coat? Or your purse?" His grip gentled but he kept hold of her wrist, stepping back to look her over. "What happened?"

She shook her head.

The door opened again. "Marty! Wait!" It was Jay, and he was carrying her things. He drew up short at the scene on the steps. "Oh. You made it."

Rory reached over to take the purse and coat. "I told you I would. You just needed to keep her here long enough for me to get over."

"I tried. Looks like it worked well enough."

She took a deep breath and looked from one to the other. "What are you two talking about?"

"This was going to be a surprise," said Jay. "You were looking lonely earlier, when you came back downstairs from going outside for air. So I called Rory and asked him to come over as soon as he got off-shift."

She was supposed to laugh now, wasn't she? Marty gave it an effort, but it came out sounding closer to a sob. "More keeping secrets?"

"There are secrets and there are secrets," said Jay, echoing her earlier words. There was an edge of sadness to his voice. "Rick's worried about you. What happened?"

"You were right," she said, voice shaking.

"About what?"

"Baltimore."

Rory looked from one to the other, obviously confused. "Someone want to clue me in?"

Jay took the coat back, long enough to wrap it around her shoulders. "Take her home, man. She'll talk about it in the cab."

"I will?"

She'd worn low heels tonight so that she could dance, which meant they were eye-to-eye when he came up to face her. "Yeah. You need to talk this out. I'll handle things here."

"Oh, that'll be the day." At least her sense of humor was starting to come back. "Given that you and Dad are barely speaking."

"All right, well, I might have to pull Mom in. That's not your problem. You need to go home and get some rest." He patted her cheek. "Happy New Year, big sister."

Rory slipped a supporting hand under her elbow as Jay went back into the house. "Sounds like you had an interesting time this evening."

"I suppose. Don't you want to go in and see your parents? I can make my own way home."

"Not a chance." His eyes flicked over her appraisingly. "You're not drunk, but you're in no shape to manage a cab alone on New Year's."

"Oh, come on. I'm not a child." In fact, out of the four of them who had graduated from high school in 2034, she was the oldest.

"No," said Rory. He had an odd tone in his voice and she realized his eyes had fallen to her shorter-than-average skirt. It showed off her legs, which was something she rarely did. "You're definitely not a child."

He slipped on his earpiece and called a cab for both of them anyway.

* * *

Despite Jay's admonition, she found she wasn't really up to talking about it. Thankfully, Rory didn't push the issue. He handed over his credit card before she could dig hers out and gave her address to the driver, but otherwise seemed content to sit next to her in silence.

Marty sighed. This was not how she'd expected 2042 to start.

A warm hand closed over hers. "You sounded like the weight of the world, there. Isn't it a little early for that?"

Her lips quirked. "I haven't been to bed yet. Could be it's a bit late."

"Nah. I know you. It's still early for you even to be in bed." The calm, laid-back manner usually present in his speech had returned, and his eyes were no longer straying down.

"I'll have you know that I was in bed well before midnight every night this week," she answered with a grateful laugh, one that was much easier than the one she'd tried before. This was what she needed: some gentle banter, a bit of normalcy.

He reached over to put the back of his hand against her forehead. "Going to bed at a normal hour? You feeling all right?"

"Cute." She wrapped the coat tighter around her shoulders. "Listen, I'm sorry you had to miss the party. If you want to go back after you drop me off –"

"I didn't go there for the party," he said softly. "I went there to see you."

Her pulse started to stutter again.

Rory dropped his hand from her forehead, but it lingered to brush against her cheek. Unlike earlier, when it had been Jay touching her like that, she found herself shivering at the contact. He responded by wrapping his other arm around her shoulders and pulling her against him.

"This is nice," she murmured. "Thank you. It's been a rough night."

"I gathered." She felt him press his lips against the crown of her head, and the darkness of the cab somehow became intimate. She shivered again, wondering what was going on. This was _Rory_. Their parents were close friends; they'd grown up together. Why, then, was she reacting this way?

She didn't have any more time to think about it, though, before the cab pulled over and he opened the door, getting out first and then offering her a hand to steady herself as she climbed out onto the sidewalk. He didn't drop it as they walked into her building, and Marty decided she didn't mind the contact.

He pulled her against him again in the elevator, one hand stroking her hair. "I'll bet you're tired."

She buried her face against his neck. He smelled nice. "Yeah." She hadn't realized it until he said it, but she was exhausted.

"Let's get you in and get you to bed, then. I want to know what happened, but we can talk about it tomorrow."

"Okay." His arm was warm around her waist as they walked out into the hall, and she wondered again at the contact. Yes, something was definitely going on.

So she wasn't entirely surprised when he pushed her against the wall after they rounded the final corner before her door. What was surprising was the sudden feel of his hands fumbling against her waist. Wasn't that a bit abrupt? It didn't seem like his style. "Hey, what are you –"

Then he spun away, and she heard the click of a weapon cocking. "NYPD! _Freeze!_"

Two dark-clothed figures ran toward the stairwell. "Rory!"

"Stay put!" He chased after them, hitting the stairwell door at a run. It had barely closed behind him, though, when he came back out into the hallway. "Damn it. They made it out the bottom before I could see which way they were going. Look, I need to call this in –"

But she didn't hear him. Instead, she was staring at her front door, having dropped her keys from fingers gone nerveless.

It was standing wide open.

* * *

_I just have to say that I've been pleasantly surprised by the reaction to this story. I didn't think it would earn any readership at all, but the reviews I've gotten have been positive and thought-provoking. Thank you all so much for the reviews, follows and favorites!_


	5. Chapter 5

_Castle_ is the copyrighted property of ABC Studios. This fiction item is intended for entertainment purposes only. No compensation has been received or will be accepted for it, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended or should be implied.

* * *

**Family Secrets**  
_Chapter Five_

* * *

"You're certain you locked it before you left?"

"Locked it and set the alarm," repeated Marty. Her feet hurt. "You know my Mom's Detective Sergeant Beckett, right? Do you really think she didn't drum basic safety and security into my head while I was growing up?"

"There were no signs of forced entry, Miss Castle," said the responding officer, who was making notes on a pad. "We have to cover all of the bases."

She sighed. "Yes, I know. I'm sorry, Officer Luong. It's been a long night."

"Is there anything missing?"

"Not that I can see offhand," she said, looking around once again. Rory was in the kitchen, having slipped on a pair of gloves to join the technicians. "But this place has been trashed. I may not know something's gone until I have a chance to really look around."

"You can do that when the techs are finished. You said you set the alarm. Did it go off?"

"I'd have gotten a call if it had."

"So whoever it was, apparently had both a key and the security code. Is there anyone other than you who has access to this apartment?"

She gave up and slipped her shoes off, standing to face him in her stocking feet. "Aside of my family, no. I live alone, and I reset the code a couple of weeks ago."

That piqued Luong's attention. He made a note on his pad. "Was there any particular reason you reset the code?"

"I was…a little worried about a few things," she said slowly, knowing what kind of a reaction that answer would create, but unwilling to be uncooperative. That kind of behavior had been one of her mother's biggest pet peeves when she was working cases.

To the officer's credit, neither his face nor his demeanor changed. "Were they the kind of things that you think might have been related to this break-in?"

"I don't know. I'm not a cop." The words were out of her mouth before she realized how peevish they sounded.

"No," he answered, still maintaining his composure. "But as you just pointed out, you're a cop's daughter. You're also a reporter who covers the crime beat. So you know what I meant."

She let her breath out slowly, reminding herself that she wasn't really irritated with him. "You're right. I'm not on my best behavior tonight."

This time, his expression did change, to one of sympathy. "Don't worry about it. It's late, and you just got home to find out you've been burglarized. Do you think there might have been a specific reason you were targeted?"

"Yeah," she admitted. "It's possible. But I couldn't tell you for sure until I figured out if some things are missing."

"What kind of things?"

"Computer files."

Luong tapped his pad off and pocketed it, indicating the alcove where her desk and terminal sat. "The techs are done over there. Let's go back and have you log in."

She followed him and sat down, grateful for the chance to get off her feet. "Veta, sign on and pull the access logs for the last six hours."

There was no response. Marty groaned inwardly. Not again.

"Veta, status check." When that didn't work, she tapped a command into the keyboard.

OFFLINE OFFLINE OFFLINE

"Great," she said. "I think we found what's missing."

"Okay," said Officer Luong, taking his pad back out. She swiped her fingertip over the terminal's ID sensor and flipped the reset switch. Her home screen came up and the sign-on tones finally sounded, but no other activity had been logged during the last six hours. Even the routine backups were missing.

"Whoever they are," she observed, "they're thorough."

Footsteps announced Rory's presence behind her. "Very." He took his gloves off and laid a hand on her shoulder for support. She reached up and threaded her fingers through his.

"We're going to need a list of the missing files and a description of their contents," said Luong. "We're also going to need to narrow down the timing. Officer Esposito, were you with her the whole evening tonight?"

"No," answered Rory. "I pulled second shift this evening, and then met her at a party at her parents' house around one." At the other officer's look, he explained. "Our families are friends. So are we."

"What time did you go over there, Miss Castle?"

"Seven-thirty, maybe? I don't remember exactly. I worked a little late and then came home, changed clothes and went straight over. We had dinner before the party started."

"Okay." Luong looked around again, stylus still in his hand. "It looks like tech is just about done. Do you think you'll be able to get me the list of files fairly soon?"

Marty glanced at a nearby clock. It was already nearly four. "Does it have to be tonight?"

"No," said Rory before Luong could answer. "She's exhausted, and morning's soon enough unless you think they're likely to come back."

The other officer shook his head. "They deliberately avoided contact with you. But it's not your call, Esposito. We're not in the Eighteenth's jurisdiction."

"I'm a witness," answered Rory. "It wouldn't matter if we were. I'm staying over here tonight, and I'll bring her in tomorrow. We'll record our statements before lineup. Is that soon enough?"

"Rory, you're on duty tomorrow. I'll be all right."

"It's this or you go back to your parents' house. I don't want you here alone."

"He said they weren't coming back."

"Yeah, but you'd already had a rough night before we got here." He looked at Luong. "Is that okay with you? I know you usually separate the witnesses."

"Neither of you is going to be a suspect. It's fine. But I'm holding you to that cooperation, Esposito. This one's going to get attention from the brass."

"Don't I know it." He pulled Marty to her feet. "Come on. Let's find some comfortable clothes for you and some blankets for me."

* * *

"So he stayed the night."

"Yes."

"And nothing happened."

"I already told you he slept on the couch." Rory had left the blankets neatly folded on one end.

Cari, who'd been perched in her usual place on the corner of Marty's desk, leaned forward. "What is _wrong_ with you? It was New Year's and you had a hot guy like that just about begging for attention, and you didn't take advantage of it?"

She sighed but didn't look up. "We were distracted."

"Mm-hmm. I can think of a few things to distract –"

"My place got broken into."

Her friend's foot had been swinging idly, but now it hit the floor. "What?"

Marty finished typing a sentence so that she could refocus her attention. "You heard me. My place got broken into. We were busy dealing with that, and after that the only thing I wanted to do was sleep." She sighed. "It wasn't a good night, okay?"

"I guess it was good you had a cop with you, then," she replied. "Do you know who did it?"

She gestured toward her terminal. "No, but we think it had something to do with my article. They hacked my terminal and crashed the files. Then they turned the place upside-down, probably looking for hard copies or other research. Apparently they didn't know I keep most of my stuff on the servers."

"Did you actually lose anything?"

"No, thank goodness." Marty looked Cari up and down, noticing her dress for the first time. The golden color accented her darker-than-average skin and black hair. "What's this? Dressed for evening when it's mid-morning?"

"Oh. Yeah." She smoothed her skirt down. "Late night, actually. I was at the second night party last night, and came by to check in before heading home."

"It's nearly ten. That was a really late night."

"Yeah, but I got some good stuff. You'll see it in the Page Six section tomorrow." She stood up. "What happens now? Is Rory going to be on the investigation team?"

"He's a witness, and it's outside the Eighteenth's jurisdiction anyway."

"So who is doing the investigation?"

Marty grimaced. "Of all people, it's Detective Harlan."

"Reed Harlan? Didn't you say a baboon has better manners than he does?"

"That's the one. It seems he put in for a transfer right around the time Mom announced her retirement, and it went through effective the first of January. That wasn't pleasant news."

"But if he's a good detective, it's at least okay, right?"

"I suppose."

"So when are you going to see Rory again, if you won't be meeting about the investigation?"

Marty felt her face warming. "What, are you fishing for more gossip? I thought you said you already got some good stuff." She'd gone to sleep last night remembering the press of his lips against her hair and hearing the sound of his voice murmuring _I didn't go there for the party. I went there to see you._

"I did," said Cari. "It's just…" she seemed at a loss for words. "After all the time I spend covering the glitterati for Page Six, it's nice to hear about someone's personal life being normal. Especially when their stories include celebrities acting normal too."

Marty's eyes narrowed. "Don't start."

"I'm not! I promise!"

"And what about your life? You usually have your own celebrity stories that never make it onto Page Six."

Cari laughed. "Oh, I'm way too busy for that right now. Too much other stuff going on." She stood up and motioned to the side, where they could see their editor on his way over. "Okay, you know what Hurricane Bill's going to say. I'll let you get back to work. But I do want to hear what happens next."

"Provided it stays off Page Six? You'll be the first."

To be honest, Marty was wondering what would happen next herself. Rory had woken her up yesterday morning by running his hands through her hair. When she'd opened her eyes, he'd leaned over and ghosted a kiss against her temple. _It's afternoon. I'm going on in so I can give my statement. Come in to the precinct when you're ready to give yours. But make sure you call your Dad first, okay? He's already tried to call you three times._

He'd been out on patrol when she went in to talk to Detective Harlan, and she'd managed to find excuses to avoid returning her father's phone call. There was no way that conversation would be anything but uncomfortable.

* * *

Her desk phone rang late that afternoon, as she was working her way toward the bottom of her to-do list and debating whether she wanted to go out for dinner before calling her parents. She answered it absently, flicking the call-trace button out of habit.

"Miss Castle, my name is Christopher Pulgatti. I think you've spoken with my father."

Marty blinked, gave herself a mental shake, and opened a new note on her terminal. "Your last name is familiar. Is your father Joe Pulgatti?"

"Yes." There was a pause on the other end of the line. "He died this morning."

She took a long breath before she answered. "I'm sorry to hear that. Is there something I can help you with? Get you connected with the obituaries department, maybe?" Her voice was steady. Her hands weren't.

"No, the funeral director's taking care of that. I needed to talk to you. It's about that interview you did a few weeks ago, and the case you're working on. Or story. Whatever it is."

"I interviewed him as a case study for an article. We spoke over the phone a few days later when I asked him to sign a release. Are you…" she trailed off, trying to keep her voice as steady as it had been. "Do you need to rescind it?"

"No," he answered. "I have some things for you. Stuff you might want to see for the article. Can we meet somewhere?"

"Sure. Where are you? Upstate?"

"No, I'm in Brooklyn. Listen, we need to do this pretty soon, before everything gets tied up in the courts. Do you have time tonight?"

An alarm bell sounded in the back of Marty's mind, and she flipped over to the internal office messaging to contact Bill Reston. "Yes, I do," she said out loud. "Did you have somewhere specific in mind?"

"Yeah. There's this bar. Fairly safe place." He gave her the location. "Can you be there by six? This won't take very long."

_Don't go alone_, came the message from Reston on her screen.

"I can be there. I won't be alone, though."

"That's all right. But whoever it is needs to know how to keep their mouth shut."

She let out a slow sigh of relief, careful to keep it from being audible over the phone. "I'm a journalist. We know what 'off the record' means." _He's ok with someone else there_, she typed on her screen. _Who's available?_

"Didn't say this was off the record. Just said you needed to keep your mouth shut. You'll understand when you get here."

Reston's reply popped up on the screen. _McManus got back in a little while ago. She says she has time. Sending her over now. You be careful._

"All right," said Marty. "I'm leaving now. That should put me there just before six."

* * *

It wasn't hard to identify Christopher Pulgatti; the resemblance to his father was obvious. Marty led them over to his booth where they slid in across from him. "Mr. Pulgatti, I'm Marty Castle. This is another reporter from the _Ledger_, Carita McManus. She writes for the society section."

"Page Six?" He smiled, but the skin around his eyes was strained. "You're not going to get a lot of good gossip tonight, ma'am."

"That's all right," said Cari softly. "I'm sorry to hear about your father."

He took a breath before responding. "Yeah. Nobody really expected it. He was doing well for his age, y'know? Responding to some of those newer treatments."

"Did the doctors tell you what happened?" asked Marty.

"Bunch of jargon I didn't understand. You ask me, I'm not sure they really understood it." He glanced at Cari again. "She tell you my old man was in prison most of the time I was growing up? It's not hitting me the way you might think. Or else I'm just not feeling it yet."

"He loved you," said Marty. "I could tell that from the way he talked when we met."

"Yeah." He took another breath, blowing it out noisily. "Toward the end there, we were really starting to connect again. He called me after you talked. Said he liked you, that you were like your grandmother and your mother. That you just wanted the truth."

"Your mother and grandmother?" asked Cari. "Marty, you didn't tell me your family was involved in this story. Aren't you concerned about bias?"

She waved the question off. "I liked him too, Mr. Pulgatti, and he gave me some useful information. I've not gotten much further than that, but when I did I was going to let him know what I found out."

"Well, he didn't give you everything. You're young enough to be his granddaughter, y'know. And I think he felt a bit grandfatherly toward you. Protective."

"I'm not so sure about that. He kept talking about your grandson."

That resulted in a laugh. "Smart as a whip, too. But I didn't ask you here to talk about that, and I'm kind of on a schedule. Don't want to raise the wife's radar, y'know?"

"I understand."

"Okay." Pulgatti took a half-size manila envelope from his coat pocket. "This is for you."

She looked it over before opening it; her name was scrawled on the outside but there was nothing to indicate the contents. There were several pages inside. She could see that the first one, at least, was a letter addressed to her. "Do you know anything about this?"

"No. It was sealed when they pulled it out of his desk." He leaned forward. "Do you know?"

Marty rifled through the pages. Most of them seemed to be photocopies of what looked like account statements, similar records, and – were those old-fashioned print newspaper clippings?

"Without going through it, I won't be able to tell what this is," she said. Cari reached over to take a look, and she passed the papers over. "I'll need a little time to look through everything. You said you're in a hurry. Is there a way I can contact you when I've figured it out?"

"Is this something I'm going to want to know?" He met her eyes. "We might've been talking but we weren't exactly best buddies. I don't know what he was doing when got sent to prison, but I don't want to get crosswise of the mob."

"He was involved with the mob, but I already know this case wasn't about that. Your family shouldn't be in any danger."

"Funny. That's what the lady said."

"Lady?"

"Yeah. On the phone." He gestured. "She called me this afternoon, asked me how to wire some funds for the funeral. Said I didn't need to worry about anything. Wouldn't tell me who she was, though, and the money's coming in from a nameless account."

Marty bit her lip. This could be the clue she was looking for, the one Jay hadn't quite been able to find. "Mr. Pulgatti, would you let me see the transaction record when that comes through?"

He peered at her. "Is it going to make my wife think I'm mixed up in something I shouldn't be? We've had some problems, and we're just now starting to work them out. I don't want to screw that up again."

She met his eyes squarely before taking the papers back from Cari. "You can give her our names. You can even tell her about this. In fact, I hope you will. If I'm right, this is going to give you some _good_ news about your father."

* * *

"We need to talk about this," said Cari as they got into the cab after leaving. "About the connection with your family."

Marty leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. "Are you asking as my friend, or because you're looking for a story?"

"My pad isn't out."

She shrugged and opened her eyes again. "My grandmother was a civil rights lawyer."

"Okay."

"Apparently both she and my mother visited Joe Pulgatti at various points while he was still in prison. My father, too. And my parents plus some of their colleagues from the Twelfth testified at his parole hearing. But that's all I know. I've got a few hints, but in terms of documentable facts I've hit a blank wall about the reason he was paroled. And I'm not even close to finding out anything about the subsequent pardon."

"Have you asked your parents?"

"No."

"What? Why not? Wouldn't that be easier than all this –" Cari waved an arm to indicate their surroundings. "Going around in circles? It's almost like you're trying to keep this a secret."

Marty turned away to look out the window.

"Holy crap. You're sneaking around behind your parents' backs, aren't you?"

"It's not that simple."

"It isn't? Damn it, Marty, you're ignoring the most valuable source of information you have! Look at me and tell me why."

To her dismay, Marty found that she couldn't. "It's just…they don't even know I know about Pulgatti. I overheard the name in an argument, and they clammed up when they realized I'd walked into the room. They're not going to talk to me about this."

"Are you positive about that? Have you even tried?" Cari shifted around to lean closer. "Is this why you left the party early on New Year's?"

"Oh, goodness, no." This, at least, she could discuss honestly, though she didn't remember telling Cari about that incident. She must have done so without realizing it. "That was something entirely different."

"Something different? Like what?"

"Now you are fishing for Page Six."

After another tense moment, Cari laughed, and the mood broke. "Can't blame me for trying. Are you headed home?"

"Yeah. I'll go back up long enough to write this up, but after that, it's going to be an early night. What about you?"

The other reporter reached into her bag and pulled out her phone interface. "Nothing special planned, but I'm sure I can figure something out if I make a few calls. You'll be all right if I don't come back in with you?"

"I'll be fine. Thanks for this. I owe you."

"Really? Then here's the price," said Cari as the taxi came to a stop. "Quit making excuses and talk to your parents. Tonight."

* * *

The newsroom was shrouded in after-hours quiet. Marty slid into her desk chair, pulled the envelope out of her coat, and spread the papers in front of her. Pulgatti's handwriting, on the first page, was unexpectedly neat.

_Dear Marty,_

_I hope I can call you that._

_I saw an article in the paper about your Mom's retirement today. You should tell the reporter they did a good job. I thought I'd known a lot about her, but there was a lot more than I'd realized. The most important part is that she's definitely never been a dirty cop._

_That's right. I wasn't convinced. Back in 2011 when she visited, I thought she might just be on a fishing trip, and I'm man enough to admit that I thought you might have been doing the same thing back in November. So I just told you both enough to make you smile and go away. After all, it had been years._

_Now I can see that your Mom really was just like Johanna. She wasn't blowing smoke when she said she only wanted the truth. And since she was, you might just be the same way. If you weren't, you might not be writing that article about pardons. (I called the Ledger after you left to make sure that's really what you were doing.)_

_I still have a lot to protect. I love my family. But I'm going to put some things together in case you ever need them. That's what's in this envelope. Because the truth deserves to come out, even if it's years too late._

_Be careful, Marty. Johanna got killed over this, and your Mom barely survived. That's 50-50 odds at best. I wouldn't take that bet, but then again, few people in the world have the fire I've seen in the Beckett women._

_That's too bad. The world might be a better place if more folks did._

_Joe Pulgatti_

Marty sighed. Everyone seemed to think this article was so dangerous. Why?

Shaking her irritation off, she began reading through the other pages. After a moment, she had her hand to her mouth. This was what she had been looking for: names, dates, places. In addition to newspaper articles she'd never seen before, there was a full history of his account with Bright Senior Living – including the funding sources.

It was over an hour before she found the notes in his medical history. He'd mentioned, during an exam, that he was feeling "odd." The doctor had run a comprehensive blood panel and discovered significant evidence of past poisoning.

Someone had tried to silence him while he was in prison. _What was that about dangerous?_

None of the more recent medical information gave any indication of problems, but she decided that the earlier attempt had made things clear enough. She quickly composed and sent a request for a copy of the autopsy report, and then realized with a start that it was almost nine o'clock.

Standing and stretching, she grabbed a scanner wand and passed it slowly over the pages on her desk. "Veta, put this on the server and then send a copy to my home terminal."

"_Okay. File folder destination?"_

"Pardons article." She tucked the originals into a folder at the back of her desk drawer, where they wouldn't be very obvious. It couldn't hurt to be careful.

Shutting down her terminal, she swung a leg over her bike and left the newsroom. Nobody was there to yell at her, so she gave in to the impulse to ride to the elevator and then down the exterior steps the way she had back in November.

The streets were busy, as always, but tonight they seemed quieter than usual. Perhaps the city was still recovering from its New Year's debauchery. Downshifting and glancing to the left, she coasted around a corner.

She almost didn't see the dark-colored truck until it was too late. There was barely time to register movement to her right before instinct had her diving off the bike and skidding across the pavement. Her skin burned from the contact, and there was a horrible crunching sound as the bike frame took the brunt of the impact.

After a quick moment to catch her breath, Marty pushed to her feet. The truck was still there. "Hey! Why weren't you looking –"

Arms caught her from behind, twisting her hands up behind her back and immobilizing her. "You're coming with us. And don't even think about screaming."

"No –" But her assailant was too strong, and she couldn't break free. Her last thought, as she felt a cloying, sticky cloth settle over her nose and mouth, was that she finally had a good reason not to call her parents.

* * *

_Kate's relatively low rank at her retirement is a nod to a scene in Heat Rises._


	6. Chapter 6

_Castle_ is the copyrighted property of ABC Studios. This fiction item is intended for entertainment purposes only. No compensation has been received or will be accepted for it, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended or should be implied.

* * *

**Family Secrets**  
_Chapter Six_

* * *

Marty woke suddenly, blinking to try and clear her vision. It was a moment before she realized her eyes were wide open; she just wasn't seeing anything. _Am I blind?_

She took a breath, trying to steady herself. Her parents and sister had taught her about things like this. Cautiously, she tried moving her arms and legs. Both wrists and both ankles had restraints of some sort on them; based on the lack of metallic noise, she eliminated handcuffs. Her position indicated she was bound to a chair.

Scrunching up her face, she felt the edge of a piece of cloth. _Not blind, then. Blindfolded. And tied up. What happened?_

She shifted in the chair, and one of her palms abruptly began a familiar stinging. That was a pavement burn. She'd jumped off the bike, and then someone had grabbed her and knocked her out. Her head was pounding. _What did they give me?_

She didn't have a chance to think any further than that before there were footsteps. The blindfold was torn off and light exploded across her eyes. Marty couldn't keep from crying out, and her eyes began to water.

Rough hands pulled her shoulders back and shone the penlight in her eyes again. "It's worn off."

"No thanks to you," she snapped, squinting to try and get a better look at her captor.

That earned her a thump against one cheek. "You're not in charge here."

"I kind of guessed that. Who is?"

"Here." Two capsules were pressed against her mouth. She refused to open it.

"If we wanted you dead or hurt worse, you would be. This is for the headache. Swallow. Now." Accepting the truth of the statement – anything could have happened while she was out – she obeyed, and then took a sip from the glass of water that followed.

"What's going on?" she asked when she had a chance to clear her throat. "What do you want?"

"I'll be asking the questions."

"Who are you, then?"

"Someone who's been aware of you for a while now." There were more footsteps and then a rustling noise, as if he were moving papers. "Hm. You're called Marty, but it seems that it's a nickname. Martha Johanna Castle. Named for your grandmothers, were you?"

"That's right." The question seemed harmless enough, though she remembered that some interrogators began with simple questions in order to smooth the lead-in to harder questions. She resolved to be careful.

"You would think you would have taken warning from what happened to your namesakes. They were both murdered, weren't they?"

"Sixteen years apart, and not by the same person." That was a matter of public record. "So?"

It was still too dim to see more than shadows, but she kept straining her eyes in the hope of catching a glimpse as the questioner paced in a circle around her. "It's an interesting coincidence, don't you think? The master of the macabre, Richard Castle, and his muse Kate Beckett. Both losing their mothers at the hands of a killer."

She shrugged, though the restraints kept her from moving too much. "What does that have to do with me?"

"You're digging into one of those cases."

"I am?" Then, she caught her breath, realizing that his voice was familiar. She'd heard it before, over the phone. _This isn't a threat. This is a warning. Leave the Pulgatti case alone. _"You've been watching me."

"Yes. And you spoke with Joe Pulgatti's son tonight."

"The last time I checked, that wasn't a crime."

"Don't get smart." There was an unexpected sharp rap at the back of her head. "On the way back from your first interview, we sent a directed electromagnetic pulse to show you how serious we are. But you've not been paying attention, have you?"

"I've been aware of you," she replied. "I've just been ignoring you. Threats don't scare me."

"They should." The footsteps paced around in front of her. "Pulgatti's son gave you some personal papers from the estate. We want them."

"I don't have any idea what you're talking about."

He smacked her face, harder than before. "Enough with the games, Martha! Don't you value your life?"

"Just fine, thanks. But I don't have any papers."

"Where did you leave them?"

"Someplace safe."

This time, the slap was backhanded. It brought fresh tears to her eyes. "Your parents have lost so many people that they loved. Do you really want to be one more?"

"What do they have to do with this?" Maybe she could turn the tables and learn something.

"Why don't you tell me? You're the one who's kept investigating even after you learned they were involved with Joe Pulgatti's case. How much do you know?"

"I –" But they were interrupted by a shout, and her captor turned away.

Marty quit speaking, listening to see what she could learn. She couldn't quite make out the words in the distance, but apparently he could, because he stiffened. "I wasn't going to – never mind. Yeah, all right. Fine. I'll be there in a minute." He turned back to her. "Wait here."

She pulled at her bonds. "It's not like I have a choice. What's going on?"

"Nothing." The blindfold was tied back around her head and his footsteps receded into the distance. She sighed. Despite the fact that her vision had cleared, it had been too dark to figure out more than a general size and shape. That wasn't enough to start figuring out who the mysterious figure had been.

In the silence, she started counting breaths. She'd just gotten to five hundred when she heard footsteps again. These were sharper and quicker than the ones she'd heard before. Someone different, then.

Once again, the blindfold was pulled off. But now, she was able to clearly see the face of the person who stood in front of her. _"Mom?"_

"Marty." Her mother knelt down in front of her to cut the ropes with a sharp knife. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question." She waited for Kate to cut the ropes at her wrists and then stood up, swaying slightly, rubbing her arms to restore the circulation. "How did you know I was in trouble?"

"I didn't," answered her mother. She closed the knife and pocketed it. "Come on. Let's go."

"Wait." She stayed where she was, one hand on the back of the chair. "If you didn't know I was in trouble, then what brought you here? Do you know these people?"

"Not really."

"Don't equivocate."

"I'm not. Working with someone and knowing them are two different things. And I haven't worked with them very much over the years."

"Them?" asked Marty. "Who are they?"

"Nobody you need to know," said Kate, her face now in shadow. "You've been looking into Joe Pulgatti's case. How did you learn that name?"

Marty brought her chin up. "I'll answer your questions if you'll answer mine."

Her mother sighed. "I know you don't like doing it, but you need to let this one go. It's not just you who's at risk here."

"I'm supposed to just take your word for that?"

"Yes!" Even now, in her early sixties, Kate still tended to prefer stilettos, and that made her tower over Marty as she walked back up. "You are in way over your head and you're lucky I was here because you might not have made it out! Other people have already died over this, and I –" she cut herself off abruptly.

"You nearly did too," said Marty after a moment. "Mr. Pulgatti said something about your shooting being a result of this situation. Whatever 'this situation' is. I'm right, though. You're not going to talk about it, are you?"

"It's over and done with," answered Kate. "Nothing anyone does now can change it."

"Then why not talk about it! What are you trying to hide? Who was Joe Pulgatti?"

"He was a bystander, caught in the middle. Nothing more. Now, where are your things? It's time to get out of here."

Marty folded her arms. "That's not good enough."

"That's all you're going to get." Kate looked around and started into the darkness. Left with little choice other than to follow, Marty trailed behind her. They found her bike in a corner of the large, empty building, and her heart immediately sank.

Her city bike was an old Raleigh that she'd found in, coincidentally enough, Raleigh, during the one time she'd talked her father into going with him on a book tour. The tour had been boring, but the bike shop in that city's small downtown area had been amazing.

He'd found her there after his last signing and noticed the way she looked at the bike, despite its dilapidated condition. Two months later, on sixteenth birthday, she'd answered the brownstone door to a delivery man carrying it. She and her mother had restored it together, becoming closer in the process, and the things she'd learned while restoring it had come in handy when she'd needed to repair it since.

But no amount of repair could fix the bike this time. It had been destroyed: the frame was bent, the handlebars hung loose, and both wheels were broken. The chain was loosely wrapped around the remains of the pedals. Marty felt tears sting her eyes again.

"I'm sorry," said her mother beside her.

"You're sorry. You're _sorry?_" She stood back up, feeling her pulse begin to pound. "I get kidnapped, my bike gets destroyed, and that's all you have to say?"

"Marty…"

But her emotions broke through to the surface. "You've been keeping secrets this whole time, haven't you? First, about your mother, then about this –" she waved her hands at their surroundings – "cover-up, and now you and Dad have been hiding major medical treatments!"

"Medical treatments? What are you talking about?"

"Jay found out what Dad was really doing when he went to Baltimore. And I saw the surgical scar on New Year's Eve."

Kate's shoulders slumped. "So that's what happened. He snooped because you asked him to, didn't he?"

"I was trying to find out what was going on with Pulgatti, since I figured you wouldn't be a helpful source. And I was right!" She snatched her messenger bag up from where it lay beside the bicycle's ruins. "How many other secrets are you keeping?"

"That's not fair. All parents keep secrets from their children."

"Most parents," snapped Marty, "hide things like embarrassing details about their children's conception. They don't hide cover-ups. They don't hide consorting with kidnappers. They don't hide murder."

"Murder? What are you talking about?"

"Don't pretend you don't know! Joe Pulgatti was murdered yesterday!"

"What?" The shock on her mother's face appeared genuine, but Marty didn't want to think about that right now. "What did you find out?"

She dropped the messenger bag over her shoulder, wincing as the strap cut into a bruise. "Ask your friends. The ones who called you here tonight to tell you someone had been digging around, even if they didn't tell you exactly who."

Kate followed her as she stalked toward the door. "Wait. Marty, this is dangerous. You have no idea what you've stumbled into!"

She spun around, breathing heavily. "Yeah? It's not as if you've actually told me what's going on here, have you? Well, I might not know why this is dangerous, but you don't know what I'm going to do about it. So I guess we're even, aren't we?"

Her mother didn't follow her after that. She slammed the door behind her, leaving the bike behind. There was no point taking it with her; it couldn't be fixed. And that, she thought, was as good a metaphor as any for the relationship with her mother as well.

* * *

Sunlight was beginning to tint the sky when she got home, and she could feel the fatigue hiding behind her agitation, but Marty knew she wouldn't be able to sleep. Not yet. Dropping the messenger bag on the bar between her kitchen and living room, she settled down at her terminal. It was too early for the autopsy report to have come back, but there might be something else.

There was: the database search results for Michael Smith and Evan Howard. She opened the files eagerly, skimming through first and then settling in for a more in-depth read. Smith's name, she was surprised to learn, wasn't a pseudonym. And both of them had started out, at least, as prosecutors although neither had stayed in the field.

_Prosecutors? Yet they testified in Pulgatti's defense? _

But it made sense. Prosecutors did sometimes testify for the defense if new evidence had come to light. _So what new evidence did they find?_

The files suggested nothing. Smith had eventually moved into private practice, earning some notoriety (and a good bit of money, she noted) with tobacco lawsuits in the early 1980s before dropping completely out of sight in 2012. He'd only surfaced long enough to testify before disappearing again.

Howard had eventually gone into politics. He'd been a senatorial aide for several years, making a major contribution to the first significant energy legislation to pass the Senate after the turn of the century. He'd later capitalized on that work with Senator Bracken to successfully run for state office on his own.

Private practice and politics. Both were fairly typical career paths for lawyers. What was special about these two? A cursory search didn't reveal any connection between them.

_But there's got to be one. This can't be a coincidence._

Her earpiece had been crushed during the kidnapping, so she tapped on the microphone attached to her terminal. "Veta, widen the search. See if there's any cross-referencing between these two and…and Detective Kate Beckett of the NYPD." That's who her mother had been then.

"_Okay. Time frame?"_

"Anytime between 1999 and 2015," she answered. "How long will the results take?" Simple Boolean searches were usually instantaneous, but the kind of complex cross-referencing she was asking for took time, particularly with her standing instructions to filter out any irrelevancies.

"_Estimated time is six to eight hours."_

Marty yawned, abruptly feeling the effects from the night before. Six hours? That would be enough time to catch up on the sleep, at least. Thank goodness today was Saturday. "All right. Notify me when it's ready." She stood up and turned toward the bedroom.

* * *

"_Marty, incoming call from Rory."_

She moaned into her pillow. Surely it hadn't been six hours yet.

"_Marty,"_ said Veta again. _"Incoming call from Rory. Should I decline?"_

She tried to push herself into a sitting position, but failed. Rolling over, she scrabbled for her earpiece before remembering it wasn't there. "No, answer it and put it on speakers. It's too early for sane people, Esposito."

"Too early? Do you know what time it is?"

She squinted at her bedside clock. "Oh." It was past noon. "Yeah. Okay."

"We were supposed to have lunch before I went on shift."

The attempt to sit up was successful this time. "I'm sorry. I forgot. I had a long night. Can I make it up to you? You're off tomorrow, right?"

"I'm in your building lobby. Will you tell the doorman it's okay to let me up?"

Unwinding the sheet from around her legs, she put her feet on the floor and bit back a yelp as the bruises began to make themselves felt. "It's all right, Saul. Go ahead and send him up."

When she opened the door, he looked at her face and blanched. "Good Lord. What happened?"

"Took a spill."

He looked her over. "You're covered in bruises."

"That's what happens when I take a spill." She grimaced; that sounded nasty even to her ears.

Judging from the look on his face, he noticed. "Behave. How's your bike?"

She shrugged. "Worse. What's got you all fired up?"

"I called you this morning, too. It's not like you not to answer your phone for hours at a time," he said, "especially with what's been going on recently. Are you sure you're okay? You weren't home last night."

"I'm fine. How do you know where I was last night?" He didn't, did he?

"I don't know where you were. But I know where you weren't, and that was here. Your lights were out when I came by after I went off-shift."

"Maybe I just went to bed early." She'd brushed her teeth while he was in the elevator, but a shower sounded really nice right now.

"And maybe you should try that one again." He folded his arms. "You 'had a long night' after you went to bed early? And then slept through lunchtime? Something isn't making sense."

Caught. She opened her mouth to protest, but then shut it again when she realized she had no good answer unless she wanted to tell him about the kidnapping, and she wasn't ready to talk about that yet. Shaking her head, she turned away and went to her terminal, checking to see if the database search results were back yet. They weren't.

Behind her, she heard him sigh. "I'm sorry. I just – that hurt, that you didn't even call and cancel and you won't tell me why. It's not like you to be this rude, either."

"I'm not trying to be rude," she answered. "I promise I only forgot."

"What got your attention enough to make you forget?" He came up behind her and laid a hand on her shoulder, inadvertently brushing one of the deeper bruises, and she couldn't keep from flinching. He jerked his hand back. "Marty?"

"It's okay. I'm just really tender."

Stepping up beside her, he looked her over again. Then he frowned, picking up one of her hands. "Wait a minute. These look like rope marks. How'd you get them?"

"I told you. I took a spill." She tried to take her hand back but he held on.

"Right. And you just happened to slide along the pavement the right way to cause these?" He picked up her other hand for emphasis, holding them side-by-side so that the matching rings of bruises were obvious. "You're too experienced to try and break a fall with your hands."

She tried to pull free again. "Let me go."

"Tell me how you really got hurt."

"There was a truck, okay? I jumped off the bike to keep from getting hit."

"That doesn't explain these. Who tied you up?"

"I don't know," she said, choosing to be honest. "I couldn't see them for sure. They knocked me out and –"

"You were _knocked out?_ And you're not in the hospital?"

"I don't have a concussion. I'm fine." He let her have her hands back and she turned away, dropping down onto the couch in her living room. "Really, I am. I'm just still trying to figure out exactly what happened."

"Why didn't you call the police? You could have at least called me." He looked her up and down again before sitting down beside her. "How did you get out of it?"

"They let me go."

"Why'd they take you in the first place?"

She closed her eyes. Apparently they were going to talk about this regardless of whether or not she was ready. "Take a guess."

"Your story."

Keeping her eyes closed, she nodded.

"Damn it." The frustration was plain in his voice. "You have got to be more careful."

"I was being careful!" She opened her eyes, turning to look at him. "I'm not stupid. I know this is getting dangerous."

"Do you? Because I'm starting to wonder. First they mess up your car, then your apartment is broken into, then you're kidnapped?" He pointed at the terminal. "And you're still investigating, aren't you? You were checking on something just a minute ago."

"So what if I am? I'm still here, aren't I?"

"Marty," he started, and his eyes were perhaps the most serious she'd ever seen them. "Whoever doesn't want you to write this story is very serious. It may not be bruises next time."

"You think I don't know that? I'll handle it if and when it happens."

"How?"

She realized she was trembling. "I don't know. But I've made it this far."

He stood up again, pacing over to the window the way she did when she was upset. "You don't have any idea how much worse it can get. I've trained for this. I've _seen_ the awful things people can do to each other, and –"

"I know what people can do to each other," she snapped, pushing up to follow him. "My parents never shielded me from that sort of thing."

"Hearing people talk about it and actually seeing it are two different things. Even my parents never let me see it until I got in to the Academy." Without warning, he turned around, backing her into a corner next to the window.

"What are you doing?"

He slapped his hands against the wall, one on either side of her face. "I thought you said you can handle things."

"I can." But the trembling had made its way into her voice. "Back off, Rory. Please."

With a sharp breath, he did, turning back to the window. She stayed where she was, steadying herself by putting her own hands against the wall behind her waist.

After a long moment, he let his head fall against the glass. "I'm sorry. I…" he trailed off, then seemed to find a renewed courage and turned to look at her again. "I don't want to lose you over a murder that happened before either one of us was even born."

"What?" She shook her head. "What are you talking about? You're not going to lose me, and just because I forgot one lunch date under extenuating circumstances doesn't mean anything's wrong." She crossed over to stand behind him. "You know that. You know me. I'm not some girlfriend you need to be insecure about."

He stayed where he was, and while she couldn't see his expression she could hear the change in his tone. "No. You're not, are you?"

Crap. She was just saying all kinds of things to upset him today, wasn't she? "I'm sorry. I was just making a point."

"Yeah? Well, sometimes you have a way of picking the wrong words to do that. Do you even _realize_ how that came across? It – oh, forget it." He turned toward her door. "You're upset and I'm upset. I'll go before we say anything worse."

She followed him. "No. Don't you turn away, not when you won't let me do the same thing."

He stopped, but didn't turn to face her. "You don't get it. New Year's. I was going to find you that night anyway, so when Jay called, it was just good timing."

"You were going to find me on New Year's anyway? Why?"

"Why do you think?" He had at least turned around, though he didn't quite meet her eyes. "This – I don't know. Ever since I've gone to second shift and we've been spending more time together – Marty, I _like_ it. A lot. And I know we've been friends forever and maybe it's a mistake, but I can't…I'm not ready to give up this chance by losing you." He shook his head. "I'm scared about these people coming after you. _You're_ scaring me by being so reckless."

She felt like her feet were rooted to the ground.

Rory must have seen something on her face, because he shook his head and started to turn away again. "Right. I didn't mean to just dump this on you. It's just…you tried to _lie_ to me about where you were last night. I don't understand."

"I don't either," she answered. "But you're right. This article's getting in the way, isn't it? New Year's. You…you were going to make a move, weren't you? Except that we got here and everything went haywire."

He nodded, laughing with little humor. "Now go ahead. Tell me how bad an idea that would've been."

She stepped closer so that she could touch his cheek. Their eyes finally met. "I can't."

Catching his breath, he held her gaze for a long moment as he reached up and covered her hand with his own. Then, without letting go, he leaned over and kissed her.

This wasn't the first time they'd tried something like this. Years ago, during the summer they'd been fourteen, they'd taken advantage of the darkness during Independence Day fireworks to share their first kiss.

They'd dissolved into laughter after only a few seconds. She'd never told him, but she'd actually been faintly repulsed that first time. It was, she figured, because they'd grown up together. They knew each other far too well to ever succumb to a romantic rush. Didn't they?

Then the tip of his tongue touched hers, and she forgot how to think. Closing her eyes, she wound her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. One of his hands came up to tangle in her hair, and she felt more than heard the soft noise. She wasn't sure which one of them had made it. It didn't really matter. His other arm slid around her waist, strong, warm, holding her close.

When it ended, he rested his forehead against hers. They stood silent for a long moment.

"Wow," she finally whispered.

"Yeah." His breathing was still uneven. "I liked that."

"So did I. I guess…I guess we have some more things to talk about, don't we?"

He shook his head against hers. "I want to. But I really was on my way to work, and if I don't leave soon, I won't make it to line-up on time. So we'll talk later, okay?"

She laughed, and then realized it was closer to a giggle, one that bordered on the hysterical. First, she'd been kidnapped; then she'd been set free by her _mother_ of all people; and now, she was discovering that there might just be more to another relationship too…

"What?"

Marty straightened up, though she kept her arms around his shoulders. They felt good there. "It's been such a crazy couple of days."

He touched her cheek. "You're going to keep investigating this thing, though, aren't you?"

"Did you really doubt that?"

"No. But will you promise to be careful? And call me if things start getting dicey?"

She nodded.

He bent over to kiss her cheek. "That's all I'll ask, then. That, and don't ride your trail bike down the sidewalk when you go back out, okay?"

This time, the laugh was honest.

* * *

She decided not to ride her bike at all. Despite being cold outside, it was sunny, and a walk would do her some good. There was a good electronics shop only three blocks from her building; she could replace her earpiece there.

A floating ad appeared directly in front of her as she exited the store, new earpiece tested and clipped on. "Hey, knock it off. We're in the street."

"Non-vehicular traffic," it informed her. "No display restrictions." Then it went on with its pitch.

"Shut down anyway." Those things seemed to be getting more aggressive every month.

She was still shaking her head at the advertiser's audacity as she crossed the street back on to her own block, and if she hadn't looked up when she did, she might not have noticed the black-clad man staring at her.

He was leaning against a lamp post at the other end of the block, a pad out as if he'd been reading it, but there was something too sharp, too alert about his stance. When their eyes met, he quickly looked away, turning to walk down the cross street and quickly disappearing.

An unexpected gust of wind caught her, slithering down her collar into her coat. She shivered and wrapped her scarf tighter, staring after him, wondering if she'd imagined that, or whether she should follow him and see if he was still around the corner. She quickly dismissed the idea; if he was watching her, he likely wasn't alone. If he wasn't, she would just be giving in to paranoia.

_But it's not paranoia if someone is really out to get you_, thought Marty. Black trucks knocking her off her bike. Black-clad strangers breaking into her apartment and watching her walk down the street. Those couldn't be coincidences.

Yet they'd left her in remarkably good shape after her kidnapping. It would've been just as easy to put her in the hospital or even kill her. That had been a precision attack, just like the break-in had had an obvious goal. Someone wanted something. The questions were, who and what?

The database search results were no doubt back by now, but she suspected she was going to have to talk to her parents to get the full story. _Really_ talk to them.

The bruises on her wrists started to throb.


	7. Chapter 7

_Castle_ is the copyrighted property of ABC Studios. This fiction item is intended for entertainment purposes only. No compensation has been received or will be accepted for it, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended or should be implied.

* * *

**Family Secrets**  
_Chapter Seven_

* * *

On Monday morning, for a change, Marty got out of her place early enough to detour to a coffee shop and pick up a white mocha cappuccino – a rare indulgence – on her way to work. By 9:00, she was at her terminal answering emails, and by 10:00 she was immersed in the pardons article series, outlining the items she would cover in each of the three installments.

She'd gotten plenty of rest the day before. Rory had left a voice message about three o'clock in the morning, sounding aggravated. "Of all the times for Evans to call out, he picked tonight. I'm sorry, Marty. I'm pulling a double."

After that, she knew, he'd be exhausted, so she'd sent a reply telling him to call her when he had had a chance to rest and recover. Then, she'd tried her parents, but oddly enough they hadn't answered and their in-house system indicated they weren't home when she'd checked.

_One more day off the hook_, she thought. It was just as well. She wasn't certain she could have been civil. So she'd spent the day researching her article instead.

"You look like you're lost in thought. Dare I hope it's about work?"

She shook herself back to awareness and saw Bill Reston standing next to her desk. "Yes, actually. Outlining the series. Do you have a firm run date yet?"

He frowned. "Let's go get a cup of coffee."

She indicated the half-full cup on her desk. It was warm, though no longer hot.

"Fine. Then let's take a walk and maybe I'll get a cup of coffee."

She put her terminal on standby and grabbed her cup and coat. It was another sunny day, but still cold, and she dug her gloves out of one pocket as they walked back to the coffee shop she'd stopped by earlier. It was quieter now than it had been, now that the morning rush had passed.

Marty paid for her own refill, but Reston insisted on covering his straight-black order. Other than that, he was silent, and by the time they found a table near the door, her good mood had been replaced by apprehension. She covered the jumpiness by taking off the cover and stirring in the whipped cream. "What is it you're trying not to tell me?"

"Your articles have been cancelled."

"What?" She dropped the stirrer. "Why?"

"Order isn't coming from me," he answered. "It's coming from somewhere higher up. No, I don't know how high," he said, when she opened her mouth to ask the next logical question. He leaned closer and lowered his voice. "What did you get into this weekend?"

"Who says I got into anything?"

He pointed at the still-visible bruises on her wrists.

"I told you when I first came in," she answered. "I got knocked off my bike and ended up pretty banged up." She waved at her face, where she knew a couple other bruises were still visible. "I've been through worse. It's nothing a couple aspirin can't handle."

"So you were just out taking a ride?"

"Pretty much." He didn't need to know the details.

"McManus said you stayed late on Friday, after your meeting in Brooklyn."

"I did. I was writing it up. What does that have to do with this order?" She was proud of herself for keeping her voice even, her hands steady, when all she wanted to do was stand up and stomp out. Was this really happening?

"She also said your parents came up during the conversation with your informant."

"So what? You know as well as I do that you can't always end up impartial. I'm chasing a case that happened well before I was born." She braced her hands on the edge of the table. "I told you I was going to use older cases, situations that had already been settled."

"Well, it looks like this Pulgatti situation wasn't."

"You think?" She was still managing well, but keeping the bitterness out of her tone was a bit too difficult. "Did they tell you anything else, or just that the article was killed?"

"Yes. They said you were getting too personally involved."

"Too personally involved? How did the brass know what I was doing at all?" Surely he didn't get that detailed in his periodic departmental reports. The _Ledger_ was known for not micromanaging its news staff.

Reston made a frustrated gesture. "You tell me. You're the one whose father has 'a guy' everywhere in this city! Maybe they heard it from him."

She was struck dumb. No. He wouldn't have done that. Not when it meant interfering with her job. Would he?

_It's only a couple of phone calls_, he'd said in the argument she'd overheard. Her mother had held him back at the time, yet on Friday night had seemed to think Marty needing protecting from something despite her earlier assertions. Had she changed her mind and allowed a phone call to the _Ledger_'s managing editor?

Marty clenched her hands and reopened them. They had started shaking, but she still managed to keep her volume down. "This is bullshit."

"Is it? Your family's not exactly low-profile, _Castle_."

"And I can't believe you're just letting it happen."

"Don't you put this on me," he snapped. "I warned you not to get into anything dangerous." He pointed at her bruises again. "But it's quite a coincidence that you got hurt right after you met with that informant. Tell me you gave me the whole story. Tell me your 'spill' isn't related to the article series."

"Damn it!" Her efforts failed and she lost control of her volume anyway. "It was my risk to take!"

"Not on our dime!"

"It was after hours! I was on my own time!"

"Not when you'd asked for someone to go with you, it wasn't."

She stood up, angry, unable to keep still any longer. Grabbing her cup, she aimed for the trash can just so she could have something to do. This was happening. This was really happening.

Reston stood up too, but stayed at the table. "Sit down."

She ignored him, keeping her back turned, unable to even look at him.

"_Marty Castle_. Get your ass back into this chair. Right now!"

The coffee shop, she realized, had fallen silent. Fighting for control, she turned around, forced her feet to carry her back to the table and fell into the chair. She could count the number of times he'd used her first name on one hand.

His eyes bored into her. "This isn't a reprimand. But if you can't handle it, it'll turn into one."

"Sure feels that way to me."

"No. A reprimand would mean you're stuck in the newsroom. But you're going out, this afternoon or tomorrow. Just as soon as the next assignment comes in."

"On assignment? Bill –"

"You're a staff writer, Castle. Assignments are a part of the job description."

He was right.

"And if one doesn't come in today, you are _not_ taking the afternoon off to go confront your parents or whatever it is I can see you thinking about."

Her chin came up. "So what will I be doing, then?"

"We have a new intern starting today. For right now, she's yours."

"You're telling me this isn't a reprimand and at the same time you're asking me to babysit? Do you think I'm stupid?"

"I'm assigning her to the person who's available," he snapped. "At the moment, that happens to be you. You need to show her where everything is so that when you do go out on assignment, she can start the paper chasing. Getting coffee for folks. You know the drill, what she's supposed to be doing. You interned here yourself."

"Yeah." She took a deep breath, feeling her control coming back. "I did."

"This one's from NYU too, if that makes any difference."

It really didn't, but she knew she was supposed to nod so she did. She could stay on good behavior while she was on the clock.

Once the day ended, though, all bets were off.

* * *

"You've reached my voice mail. Leave me a message. If it's important, I'll call you back."

Marty frowned at Jay's voice mail message. That was hardly what she might have expected from a professional who also got business calls at that number. Then again, musicians weren't known for their businesslike demeanors.

"Hey there," she said after the tone sounded. "Listen, I was wondering if you're available tomorrow. There's a funeral upstate, and I'd like to go. It'd be kind of rude if I didn't, actually. But it's on my own time, and I probably shouldn't go alone. Let me know if you can give me a ride." She could always rent another car, of course, but it would give them a chance to talk over whatever would happen when she went to her parents' tonight.

Hanging up the phone, she made her way over to Cari's desk where she'd left the intern for a few minutes. It had been a long, boring day, and there were still another couple of hours left to go.

Unlike her desk, which was often covered in a sea of paper, her friend's was neat. She didn't have a side chair, though, so the intern was standing behind her, peering over her shoulder at something displayed on a pad.

"Have you finished corrupting her yet?" asked Marty.

"I'm not that easy to corrupt, Miss Castle," said the intern.

"Oh, please," she replied. "I told you I'm too young for that. My name's Marty, and you told me yours is Tanya. What are you looking at?"

"You," said Cari, turning the pad around. Marty groaned. It was an old picture of her with her parents, taken at the _Family of Twelve_ release party right around the time she'd graduated college. "Speaking of ages, I was already working when she was still just _making_ the headlines."

"My life isn't that interesting."

Cari leaned back in her chair and folded her arms, a speculative look crossing her face. "And who is that standing next to you?"

Marty felt the blush spread right up to her hairline. "There's news, and there's gossip. Which one is going on here?"

"You tell me. I haven't ever seen you turn that red over Rory before. What did he say when he saw your bruises?"

"What do you imagine he – oh, crap," she stopped herself, realizing what she'd just admitted. "Damn, Cari. That was a good one. You're right. I did see him over the weekend."

Cari looked at the intern. "See how it's done, Tanya?"

"Wait a minute. You were using me as an example of how you set someone up?"

"Do you see anyone else around here who's available?"

"Ouch! That wasn't funny." But she was laughing, and she realized her mood had lightened a little. Thankfully, her face had also cooled off. She was far from ready to discuss details with, of all people, a Page Six reporter.

Cari leaned forward. "Seriously, though. Are you okay? It's not every day that an article series gets cancelled right out from underneath you like that."

She felt her mood darkening again. "Has Reston been telling everyone?"

"No, actually. But you're not usually in the newsroom all day, and word does get around."

Marty sighed. "I won't be here all day tomorrow. Tough breaks happen sometimes."

"You're handling it well," observed Tanya.

She shook her head. "No, I'm not. I'm just putting the blame on the people responsible instead of the rest of the world. Come on. Have I showed you where the other coffee machine is? You're going to get asked."

"Marty," said Cari as they turned to go. "Don't be too mad your parents. They really do care what's going on with you."

"The worst part of all this," she answered, "is that I know that."

* * *

She couldn't decide whether it was procrastination or practicality that sent her home after work, instead of directly over to their house. Marty settled for telling herself that it probably would be a smart idea to eat dinner at home first, since whatever happened would likely end any desire to share a meal with them that evening.

There was another black-clad figure waiting, seated on the sidewalk outside her building. She swung a leg off her trail bike and dismounted to the right; it was awkward, but meant that the frame would be between her and the front door.

The article had been killed. Why were they still following her?

Walking the bike up the curb, she kept her eyes on the stranger. He remained motionless until she was nearly up to him. That wasn't exactly the best surveillance technique.

Then he moved so she had a clear view of his face, and she blew her breath out hard. "Jay. What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you." He pushed to his feet, swaying slightly, and her heart sank. They hadn't even made it a week into the new year yet. "We've gotta talk."

Slurred speech, too. Great. "I guess this isn't about my message. You could've called, though."

"Nope." Steadying himself against the side of the building, he straightened completely. "Doing this one in person. 'Cause you're not gonna walk away or just hang up 'less we're done."

"Can we at least get upstairs first? And do you have a gig tonight?"

"Oh, plenty of time for that." She wasn't so sure, but decided that battle wasn't worth fighting. Instead, she fished her elevator key out of her pocket. Jay started to nod at the doorman as they went by, but took a false step and apparently thought better of unnecessary movement.

He was silent as they rode the elevator up to her floor and then went through the hallway. But as soon as she closed the front door of her apartment, he turned on her. "What the hell are you doing? Kate called me last night going on and on about how I shouldn't be snooping in things that aren't my business and that if I wanted to know something I should just ask. You know anything about that?"

She stowed her bike before answering. "Something might've come out in an argument."

"You owe me a better explanation than that, big sister. Not to mention an apology."

Marty dropped her keys back into her pocket and started opening cabinets in the kitchen, pulling out the beginnings of a quick meal. Eating something might help him sober up faster. "You're right," she answered. "I do. But do you want to hear it now or should I save it until you're not too drunk to remember?"

He slammed his hands down on the bar. "Don't start."

"I'm not the one who picked up a bottle this afternoon! What happened to your New Year's resolution? What about saying congratulations at sixty days?"

"There's still plenty of time left in the year for all that. Don't try to change the subject. What the hell did you say to her?"

She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a container of leftover vegetables. Stir-fry wouldn't take much time, and she had enough to feed them both. "I told you. We got into an argument."

He pointed at the bruises on her wrists. "Must've been some argument."

"It was." She reached into another cabinet and pulled out two glasses. "Do you want a glass of water? You don't want to try and do a gig tonight with a hangover."

"I said," and his voice roughened, "don't try to change the subject. I _needed_ a drink after that phone call. If you hadn't told on me –"

"No," she snapped, putting her glass onto the bar with more than the necessary force. Water sloshed over the rim. "Don't you dare try to blame me for your drinking. I've already had enough today! For all I know you're the one who got them to kill the article!"

"Kill the – what?" His tone had evened out somewhat, but Jay's hands were still clenched around the edge of the counter.

"You heard me. Someone called someone else, and my article series is dead." She leaned over the counter to look him straight in the eye. "You asked me if I knew anything about the phone call you got. Do you know anything about the news _I_ got?"

He straightened up, matching her challenging look with a triumphant expression. "That's not my gig. That's the way Rick operates. He's the one who knows people everywhere. And what was that about not blaming things on the wrong people, big sister?"

"Don't start." She dropped the skillet onto the burner and reached back to light it. With deceptive speed, he came around the bar and shoved her hand away before she could touch the dial. "Jay! What the hell!"

"We are _not_ done talking yet."

"You're drunk!" She reached back again, but this time he was more emphatic and her hand hit the open container of vegetables. They flew everywhere. "And just how important was it that we talk now? I had plans for this evening and it's not like you weren't going to see me tomorrow!"

His lips quirked into a smug smile. "Rory?"

"If you must know, I was going over to Mom and Dad's to talk about this…" she trailed off to make a gesture. "Meddling." Casting a look around at the mess, she went toward the pantry to retrieve a broom.

"I see. So you do think they're behind this."

"I'm just done with them treating me like a child!"

"Treating you like a child?" His laughter was sarcastic. "Treating you like a _child?_ Marty, the reason they're treating you like a child is because you're acting like one! Why didn't you ask them about this guy Pulgatti? Why'd you have me snoop instead?"

She faced him squarely, broom in hand. "Do you really think they would've answered? Mom didn't the other night."

"You'll never know if they might've answered you earlier, do you? I think you just didn't want to admit that they might actually be capable of lying to _you_. Their golden child, the one that was actually planned –"

"Just because they didn't tell us the whole truth about your adoption until we were teenagers –"

"And they only did that because we did that blood type experiment in school! What in the hell makes you think they won't lie to you when you know they already have? Isn't that what this is all about? You don't want to admit that they're human?"

"I know they are!"

"Really?" He jerked the broom out of her hands but missed the counter when he tried to lean it against the edge. It clattered to the floor amidst the scattered vegetables. "If you did, you'd have asked them. But I think it was easier to go behind their backs! To risk getting me in trouble again when I was just coming off probation! And God –" he scrubbed his eyes with his hands. "God. I went along with it, didn't I? I fed that denial."

She folded her arms and leaned a hip against the counter. "I would think that's your department. Seeing how good you are at it."

"I've never pretended I don't have a problem with booze. But I'm done helping you."

"For all the help you've been!" But there was a twist in her stomach. Did this mean he wasn't going to take her to the funeral after all?

"And just how much would you have accomplished without me? Do you have any idea what kind of lies I had to tell to get Rick not to follow you over here on New Year's?" He waved his hand around to indicate her apartment. "How do you think he would have felt to know what you found when you got here? Have you even told them yet?"

The twist became a throbbing ache. "That's not fair. We both know he's not been well."

"Yeah, well, losing his daughter wouldn't have exactly helped him with that, would it? Of course, it's not like you've been a particularly good daughter lately, but –"

Now there was fire erupting in her stomach. "Don't you dare accuse me of that. I'm always the one running interference with them for you! They'd have kicked you out of their lives for good if not for me."

"I see. You don't even think I'm capable of handling unpleasant truths. It must be awfully lonely up there in that tower of yours. Why don't you come down around the rest of us mortals?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Maybe it's time you faced your own unpleasant truths. Rick and Kate have been lying to us about an awful lot. And you risked getting killed rather than just calling them out on it. For all I know you're still going to, especially now that you've got a chance to go rogue."

She took a breath, fighting for control for what she thought might be the hundredth time today. "I'm not going to go rogue."

"Yeah? Tell me that again in a week, when you're going crazy because you don't know how the story ends." With that line, he stomped out of the apartment and slammed the door behind him. Marty put her elbows on the counter and leaned forward, shaking, feeling tears wet her hands as she covered her eyes.

She hated admitting it, but he was right. Cari had been making the same point: she'd been reckless and headstrong. Her father had likely arranged for the article to be shut down in order to protect her, but only after she'd proven she was unwilling – or unable – to protect herself.

Just like the way a child might be.

Ignoring the mess on the floor, she went back to the pantry and reached up onto a high shelf for a half-full bottle of whiskey. Given what she'd seen Jay deal with, she didn't drink very often. It wasn't a good idea to do it tonight. But what the hell. It might help take the edge off, and she'd certainly had plenty of practice at making lousy decisions lately.

What did one more bad choice matter?

* * *

She wasn't sure how long she had been sitting there with her back against the refrigerator, the emptied bottle on its side next to her. Marty knew she had dozed, but it had been neither intentional nor restful. It was only when she heard the apartment door opening and saw black-clad feet come into her field of vision that she felt herself rousing to full awareness.

"Marty?"

Stirring, she reached up toward the intruder with a half-formed thought about pushing him away.

"Okay, yeah, she's awake. It's all right. She's just having a bad night." There was a pause. "No, we'll be fine. I'm just going to put her to bed anyway. Thanks for letting me in, man."

"Rory?" she managed, fighting her way through her mental fog. She was vaguely aware of the sound of the door closing.

"The super let me in. Your lights are on but you weren't answering your phone." His hands closed around hers. "How much have you had?"

She pointed at the bottle and he picked it up. There was a very faint sloshing sound; she must not have quite finished it off. "Was about half-full," she mumbled.

"All right. We don't need to go to the hospital but wow, are you ever going to pay for this. C'mon, sit up. What happened?"

"Jay. He –" forming words took an incredible effort. "Drinking. Mad. We argued."

"It's been a while since one of his benders set you off." She moaned as he pulled her away from the refrigerator. "You think you can stand up?"

"Not sure." She tried to arrange her feet, slipped on a vegetable, and cracked the back of her head against the refrigerator. "Ow. Wha' time is it?"

"Twelve-thirty. Let's try again. Then you can tell me why there's food all over the floor." She felt his hands slide under her arms to steady her, but she still couldn't figure out where to put her feet. They ended up tumbling together, with him landing half on top of her. "Hey, you've got to work with me here."

"Mmkay." She put her arms around his neck and pulled him down against her, and for one long, glorious moment she could feel him respond, pressing her fully down to the floor and settling his body over hers. He slid his hands into her hair, angling her head for better access, and she willingly opened her mouth under his, feeling both their skin start to heat up. When his leg slipped between hers, resulting in just the right amount of friction, she couldn't stop herself from whimpering. It felt wonderful and so incredibly, amazingly right. Why _had_ she hesitated for so long about this, anyway?

Then he pulled back, leaving her gasping. "No. Not like this."

"Not like what?" She tried to follow his mouth, but he held her still. "You want this too."

"Yeah." His voice was rough, huskier than she'd ever heard it. "I do. But you won't be upset and you will be sober." Releasing her shoulders, he pulled her back up to a sitting position and held her against his shoulder, caressing one cheek. "It had to be bad, if you're drinking like this. What did he say?"

"I –" everything seemed to come crashing back into her memory at once. The kidnapping. The argument with her mother. Her article being killed. Cari's concern and Jay's accusations. Realizing that they'd been so right and she'd been so _wrong_…

She couldn't seem to stop the tears from flowing. Oddly enough, Rory had no trouble getting her onto her feet now, and he held her close, wrapping an arm around her waist and stroking her hair. "Shh. Shh, Marty. Whatever it is, we can get it worked out. It's going to be all right."

He sounded so confident. How could he be that sure?

Sliding an arm to her knees, he picked her up, cradling her against his chest and carrying her toward the bedroom. She wrapped her arms around his neck again, but this time she buried her face against it and let the tears become sobs.

* * *

_I took a page out of Castle's book for some portions of this chapter: they were written in a public library. _

_As of this chapter, "Family Secrets" is now the longest story I have ever written. It's also arguably among the best work I've ever done. Thank you to everyone who has encouraged me!_


	8. Chapter 8

_Castle_ is the copyrighted property of ABC Studios. This fiction item is intended for entertainment purposes only. No compensation has been received or will be accepted for it, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended or should be implied.

* * *

**Family Secrets**  
_Chapter Eight_

* * *

The funeral was held in a small chapel, so while there weren't very many people the pews were full and Marty had no difficulty slipping in anonymously at the back. Afterward, she found Christopher Pulgatti in the crowd outside.

"Didn't think you'd be here, even with the invitation," he said. "It's not exactly in the city."

"It was worth my time," she answered. Now that the article had been cancelled, she'd had to take personal time to attend this, but she hadn't hesitated about asking. In addition to it being the polite thing to do, she'd genuinely liked the older Pulgatti.

"Thank you." He fidgeted. "So, ah, did you find anything in that file?"

Marty hesitated. Should she continue this? Or would that be 'going rogue' as Jay had accused her of being likely to do?

Then the crowd shifted slightly and she noticed a man watching her. He was all in black, and when their eyes met he turned away, strolling off far too casually. She frowned. The article had been cancelled. Why was she still being watched?

"Miss Castle? Everything all right?"

She took a sharp breath. Ignorance could be dangerous sometimes, and taking one more step didn't mean she had to go all the way. "I'm sorry, Mr. Pulgatti. Yes, actually, I did find something in the file. It might not be significant, but it was enough that I requested a copy of the autopsy report once it comes through. I haven't heard back about it yet, though. Have you?"

"Autopsy?" The older man shook his head. "Nobody asked me if we wanted one done."

"There wasn't an autopsy?" She shook herself mentally, refocusing her attention. Lack of sleep was taking its toll. "I thought you said the doctors couldn't tell you exactly how he died."

"They couldn't, but I didn't see how cutting him open would make any difference. Won't bring him back." The sadness in his tone couldn't be missed.

"I'm sorry," she said, responding to that. "I know this isn't an easy time. But it's possible he didn't die naturally. There were some indications that someone had tried to do something in the past."

His eyes narrowed. "The old man said he was done with the Mob."

"I know. I'm not talking about that."

"Then what are you talking about? He was eighty-five, y'know, so this wasn't a total shock. What makes you think there's more to it?"

She hesitated. All she really had were a couple of old medical records, a hunch, and what might be simple paranoia. Black was normal attire for funerals, after all. "It was...there wasn't much. Just enough to make me ask a few questions. Had he had blood work done on any sort of regular basis during the last couple of years?"

"Yeah, I think he had." A nervous look crossed Pulgatti's face. "Do you really think it's worth looking into? I was going to just email you that information about the money for the funeral, but I don't want to get into anything serious myself."

"You won't," she said. "And I told you, I'm pretty sure I'm going to be able to tell you something good about your father. At the very least, I already know..." she trailed off, remembering her mother's words. _He was a bystander. Nothing more._ "I already know that he wasn't completely guilty. He was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. If anything, I think he might have been working to protect a number of people, including both you and me."

"From what?"

She sighed. "That's what I don't know. But I suspect there's a secret that needs to be told."

"Sometimes secrets aren't worth it," he answered. "But I'll get you those files. Just be safe, okay?"

"I will. Thank you, Mr. Pulgatti."

Excusing himself, he made his way over to a woman who appeared to be around his own age, who cast a suspicious glance toward her. Marty guessed she was his wife, so she nodded in acknowledgment and then turned away politely, reaching into her purse for her earpiece.

That was when she saw the backs of another well-dressed couple as they made their way toward the parking lot. She froze, recognizing them at once. What were _they_ doing here?

Breaking into the fastest walk her heeled dress shoes would allow, she followed after them until she was close enough to call out. "Mom and Dad? I didn't know you were coming to this."

Her parents stopped for a long moment, and then turned around together as she walked up to them. Her mother spoke first, using a neutral tone. "I didn't know you were coming, either."

"You know I'd been talking to Mr. Pulgatti," she answered, not knowing how to begin the conversation. She didn't want this to degenerate into a shouting match the way it had at the warehouse. The friends and family around them deserved better than that. "I know both of you met him in 2011. How do you know him?"

They exchanged one of those long, communicative looks she'd seen them use all her life. "It was about a case," said her mother after that.

"That much, I've figured out." _Watch your tone, Marty_, she told herself. "Look, we need to – can we..." she took a steadying breath. "Dad. Did you call the _Ledger_ about my article?"

"This isn't the place to talk about this," he said in reply.

So he had, then. "Maybe. But it's past time we've had this conversation." She indicated a small stone bench behind the main chapel area. "And I think it's best if we do it before any of us goes back to the city."

Her mother's eyes narrowed, but she didn't respond until they'd seated themselves. "What makes you say that?"

"I think I'm still being watched."

"What?"

The crowd was still visible, so Marty scanned it and then pointed at the mysterious figure with a slight nod of her head, not wanting to be obvious. "Look at him. He's not here for the funeral."

Her father frowned and then nodded. "I can see that."

"Also, the last time I saw someone outside my place was before I found out about the cancellation, but it was after you'd made the call."

"Are you sure about that?" They exchanged another look, a briefer one this time.

"The timing was pretty close, but yes."

Her mother bit her lip. "Okay, then. But maybe they're just watching to make sure you really do back off."

"Back off?" asked Marty. "Listen, I got the message when they told me the article series was cancelled. But that doesn't change the fact that Joe Pulgatti died at an awfully convenient time, does it? I'm not convinced it was natural causes, either."

"That's the second time you've made that accusation," said her mother. "What did you find?"

"There were some anomalies in the medical records. He was poisoned at least once while he was in prison –"

"Murder attempts in prison aren't unusual," said her father.

"Not with poison," she countered. "His son also tells me that aside of his age, he was perfectly healthy. Then he just…died. There was no decline, and he was never admitted to a skilled nursing unit or to hospice."

"That's unusual," he said. "But not unheard-of. Was there an autopsy?"

She sighed. "No. The family never thought about it, and I'm getting the impression they don't want to get involved if they think it's getting close to a criminal case."

"You do realize that means we'll probably never know, then, right?" asked her mother. "If the medical examiner doesn't find evidence to confirm it was murder –"

"Then that makes a homicide case difficult, but not impossible," argued Marty. "You know that. And it doesn't explain why people are still watching me. Watching us. It also doesn't explain who paid for this funeral."

A mask seemed to fall across her mother's features. "What are you talking about?"

She bit her lip, hesitating. Technically, Jay hadn't found anything before, and she hadn't yet seen the transaction information that Christopher Pulgatti had agreed to send her. "It wasn't the family. Just like it wasn't the family that paid for his assisted living."

They exchanged another look, and to anyone else, it might have seemed inscrutable. But these were her own parents, and she'd grown up watching them.

"Don't try to tell me you don't know anything," she said, letting her tone harden. "If you didn't, you wouldn't be trying to figure out what to say next. You'd just deny it, wouldn't you?"

Uncharacteristically, her father dropped his eyes and looked away.

"You did pay for it, didn't you?"

"No," said her mother, who was also not meeting her eyes. "Not us. But – yes, we...helped."

"Define 'helped.'"

"It's...the more times money changes hands, the harder it is to track."

"You've been _laundering money?_" She had to work to keep her volume down. "Whose was it?"

"That doesn't matter," said her father.

"Yes it does! When people start getting killed –"

"You don't have any evidence that Joe Pulgatti was murdered!" snapped her mother. "If you did, you'd have called the police by now. Marty, haven't you figured out by now that this is so much bigger than you realized? You don't want to wake..." she trailed off abruptly, looking at her father. The color had left her face. "Oh, my God, Castle. I sound just like Gary McCallister did, don't I?"

Her father reached over and took her mother's hand. "You're not him."

"What are you talking about? Who's Gary McCallister?"

"He's dead," answered her father. "So is almost everyone else around this case. You need to leave it alone."

"Leave it alone!" She stood up, knowing that if she didn't do something physical she'd start yelling at full volume. "Leave it alone? Haven't you heard anything I'm telling you? I'm still being watched. Whatever 'it' is, it's not going away, and you're not even giving me enough information to know how to avoid getting hurt!"

"If you leave this alone, they'll leave you alone," said her mother.

"You can't possibly believe that! After all, you went to the warehouse the minute they called you, didn't you, even though you didn't know it was me that they had tracked down." She clenched and unclenched her fists, fighting for control. "You were afraid of something that night, weren't you? Was it that someone had discovered something about you? Something illegal, maybe even dangerous? Were you afraid that someone else was about to be murdered?"

Her father pushed to his feet, eyes flashing. "Everyone except your mother and Senator Bracken _has_ been murdered!"

Marty blinked, surprised enough that it took a moment to reply. "Senator _William_ Bracken? The one involved in the green company kickbacks scandal?" That had happened just as she was starting to get interested in the news and it was one of the first stories she'd followed through from beginning to end. While her parents hadn't discouraged her from doing it, they'd been uninterested. She'd figured the story had bored them.

Her mother stood up to face them both, taking her father's hand again. "Yes," she said quietly. "Senator William Bracken."

"Did you –" she paused to take a breath. "Were you involved in the scandal?"

They exchanged another long look, and she knew she was right. Her stomach twisted. Her parents hadn't just been involved in a cover-up or an illegal pardon. They'd helped to bring down a United States Senator.

She took a long, slow breath. "I cannot imagine that the people who taught me right from wrong would get mixed up in something like this. There's got to be a reason. Did you testify in the civil lawsuit?" The ex-Senator had ultimately been found personally liable for much of the damage, and had ended up penniless and powerless. If she remembered right, he was still alive, but living in obscurity somewhere in New England.

"No," said her mother. "That was after. And Bracken's not important. Not anymore."

"Who's following me around, then? What are you protecting?"

"Sometimes," said her father, "good people make bad choices. That doesn't mean they should pay the price forever."

Marty's temper snapped, and her voice began rising despite her intention to avoid making a scene at this funeral. "That's a cop-out! Why can't you just answer my question, damn it?"

Her father's features hardened. "That's enough. I already told you this isn't the time or place."

"Well, when in the hell is?" she asked. "Just how far were you willing to go before even admitting you knew anything at all? Or were you hoping to keep this a secret forever?"

"It doesn't involve you!" her father shouted back. He was breathing heavily. "It all happened before you – at a time when – it's not – it's not – oh, God –"

"Castle!" Her mother took his other hand. "Don't get too worked up!"

But it was too late to prevent whatever she was trying to stop. Shocked, Marty watched as her father's eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled. Her mother tried to catch him, but the difference in their sizes meant that she was only able to keep his head from cracking against the bench before they ended up on the ground.

She dropped to her knees beside them. "What the –"

Her mother's voice was like a whip. "Call 911. _Now._"

Marty pulled her earpiece out of her purse. "Veta, medical emergency! Check my location and get the nearest ambulan…" she trailed off in horror, words deserting her, as her father abruptly began shaking. Her mother swore softly.

"What is it?" she asked, voice shaking.

"It's a seizure. Give me your jacket and get me that ambulance, damn it!"

Right. She called instructions into her earpiece a she watched her mother cushion her father's head with the jacket and use her body as a buffer to keep him from hitting the bench. The twitching worsened as she straightened his arms and legs and then rolled him onto his side. Marty thought she might throw up. Didn't most seizures last less than sixty seconds?

Her father's jerky movements subsided after another minute or so, though, settling into trembling before they stopped altogether. "Veta, where's that ambulance?"

"_ETA of forty-five seconds."_

Her mother closed her eyes, exhaling heavily, before smoothing soaked hair back from her father's forehead. "Hey. Rick. Are you awake?"

He didn't respond for a long moment, and then he blinked. "Kate?"

"It's me. Do you know where you are?"

His eyes moved around, but he didn't seem to be seeing anything. "Head hurts. Did I –"

"Yes. Marty's here. Do you remember?" She hadn't heard her mother use such a gentle tone since she'd been a child.

"Not really," he mumbled. He sounded exhausted. "Bad one?"

"It wasn't good, but you've had worse."

He'd had _worse?_ This had happened before?

Marty's throat closed up and she choked on her tears, pushing herself back from her knees into a sitting position as the paramedics raced up. One of them had to take the earpiece from her to let the dispatcher know they'd arrived.

* * *

"Miss Castle? Are you Marty Castle?"

She blinked herself back to awareness. Marty hadn't even realized that she'd dozed off in the waiting room. Last night, between bouts of crying, glasses of water, and answering Rory's questions, she'd had very little sleep. Despite the adrenaline that had surged through her veins while she followed the ambulance to the hospital, that was taking its toll.

"I'm Marty Castle," she said, standing up and brushing herself off. Her neck ached.

"You can go back and see her father now," said the aide who was standing in front of her.

Forgetting her fatigue and pain, she rushed past him behind the doors of the emergency room and then stopped, realizing she didn't know which way to turn. Fortunately, the aide had caught up with her; he pointed her toward one of the curtained-off alcoves.

She pushed the curtain aside as quietly as she could. "Mom."

"Marty." Her mother waved her to a stool near the foot of the bed. "It's okay. He's just asleep."

"What happened?" She couldn't keep her tone even. "Did I –"

"No," said her mother, and then she sighed. "This…this wasn't the first time."

"I gathered that." The words had played and replayed in her mind. _It wasn't good, but you've had worse._ "What – how long has this been – why didn't..." she trailed off. For someone who asked questions for a living, she certainly wasn't being very articulate right now.

"It's called post-traumatic epilepsy." She realized that her mother looked exhausted, and the fine lines etched around her eyes seemed deeper. "He's had it since you were teenagers."

"That long?"

"It wasn't bad at first. We didn't even recognize the first few seizures because they were so mild, and medication was enough to keep it under control. But right around the time you moved out..."

Marty swallowed. "He started getting worse, didn't he?"

"Yes. We've been looking into different treatments, seeing specialists –"

"Such as that trip to Baltimore, right?" She'd looked it up in the waiting room. Johns Hopkins had a long-standing reputation as the foremost research center for neurology and neurosurgery in the country, and possibly the world. That made sense now.

Her mother nodded. "So far, there's been progress, but it's..." she trailed off, and her eyes began to shine. "Every step forward seems to be followed by two steps back. We don't know – I can't tell you how long it's going to be before it's too bad to –"

She stood up and went to the head of the bed, taking her mother's hands. "Why didn't you tell us? Why've you been trying to do this alone?"

"Not alone. Lanie's been involved in his treatment from day one, and everyone else has been incredibly supportive. We just didn't want to upset you children."

"We're not children anymore," said Marty gently. "You can talk about it now."

A tear slid down her mother's face. "He's only seventy-two. He's supposed to have at least another ten, maybe even fifteen years before we have to deal with –" she cut off, but it was obvious what she'd been about to say.

"Mom." She moved from holding the older woman's hands to wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her into a hug. Her mother was _shaking_. "Is this why you retired?"

She nodded. "He doesn't need a full-time caretaker. Not yet. But it's dangerous for him to be alone for too long, and it's only a matter of time before...before..."

"Okay," she said, mostly because she didn't know what else to say. _It's all right_ certainly didn't seem to apply. "Okay. What do you need me to do? How long do you think he'll be here?"

"Provided he's oriented, they're letting him go as soon as he wakes up."

Pulling the stool around the bed, Marty sank back down. "That soon?"

"That's normal for seizures. As long as he's all right and there's no sign of anything unusual, there's really no need to stay." Steadier now, her mother reached over and brushed an errant lock of hair off her father's face. "Did you drive over?"

"Yeah. I have a rental car."

"So ours is still back at the chapel?"

She had to think for a moment. "I'd imagine so."

"Will you stay, then?" asked her mother. "We'll need a ride back to pick it up."

For a second, Marty thought about pointing out that they could probably get a taxi back to the funeral home – they weren't in that rural of an area – but then she realized what her mother was really asking. She took a long breath, deciding to accept the olive branch. They might have been arguing over family secrets, but the word _family_ came before the word _secrets_ in that phrase.

"Yeah. I'll stay," she said. "And I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?"

"I wouldn't have – if I had known that getting Dad worked up would hurt him, I'd have tried to find another way to do this."

"Like investigating on your own?"

Despite where they were sitting, despite everything that had been going on, despite her own exhaustion and upset, Marty felt a smile touching the edges of her lips. "Yeah. Because we see how well that went. Joe Pulgatti's murder added to the list that started with Bob Armen."

Her mother's eyes flicked up briefly before dropping again. "Bob Armen wasn't murdered."

"What?"

"Bob Armen wasn't murdered," repeated her mother. "It was an accident. The gun went off by mistake. Manslaughter, at the most. It just..." she sighed. "It just didn't stop there."

She couldn't keep herself from asking. "The other deaths? Were they murders?"

"Yes." The other woman's tone was steadier now, but her eyes remained focused on her hands where they held one of her father's. "That's the irony. All this death, all this destruction, started with what was really just someone being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Marty leaned forward. "Mom, I..." she bit her lip. "I think it's time you told me the story."

Her mother's eyes came up to meet hers now, and for a long moment Marty thought she might try to dodge the conversation again. _Please don't_, she told her silently. _Not now. Not when there's so much more at stake, and you know I already know parts of it._

She must have seen something in her expression, because after that pause her mother slowly nodded. "All right. It started with the right intentions, from a trio of overeager police officers."

* * *

Letting herself back into her apartment, Marty dropped down on the couch with a long sigh. She was completely spent, and not in a good mood. _Why didn't I notice that something was up with Dad? Am I really that out of touch? Aren't reporters supposed to be keen observers?_

Her father had woken up partway through her mother's recital of the events that had led to her grandmother's murder, her own shooting, and then beyond. She'd been simply outlining the events, but he had added color and shading, and both of their voices had hesitated when they admitted that their pursuit of this case had nearly torn them apart.

It was deeply, deeply personal. No wonder her father hadn't included it in his book about his time at the precinct. Some things didn't need to be made available to the public.

She'd had no idea just how much her parents had been through before she was born. Marty leaned forward, covering her face with her hands, though surprisingly there weren't any tears. _I guess I shed all of those last night._

Last night? Oh, goodness. Someone else needed to know about this. "Veta, call Jay."

He picked up just as the connection would have gone to messaging. His voice was small. "Hey."

"Hey. How are you doing?"

"Hung over."

"You and me both," she said. The soreness and sensitivity to light had mostly worn off, but she was still exhausted. Of course, that had as much to do with the upset as the alcohol.

But it still got his attention. "Really? You? That's usually my excuse, big sister."

"Yeah, well, sometimes it's mine too. Listen, about last night –"

"No, I want to say it first," he interrupted. "I'm sorry. I was out of line."

"We both were," she said quietly. "How about we just chalk it up to neither one of us on our best behavior and leave it at that?"

"I can handle that," he replied, "but I'm still sorry. Is that why you called?"

"No, actually." She paused long enough to slip her shoes off. "I went to the funeral today, and it turned out Mom and Dad were there."

"They were? Did you talk to them?"

"I did. For a while, it turned out, since Dad ended up in the emergency room."

"He _what?_" Jay's voice rose sharply. "What happened? Who did what to him?"

She laughed inwardly. As much as Jay might verbally deny caring about their parents, his actions often showed that the truth was something different. It was a reason she had hope that their estrangement could eventually be resolved.

But the humor didn't last very long. "It was my fault. I got him a bit riled up, and…and he had a seizure. Apparently he's been having them since we were teenagers."

"Whoa. Wait a minute. How come we didn't already know about this?"

"Mom said she didn't want to upset us. But he's been getting worse lately." She felt her throat trying to close, so she took a deep breath to steady herself, standing up and walking to the window. She loved this huge picture window with its deep sill; it was one of the reasons she'd chosen this place when she'd decided to use the second part of her trust to buy an apartment.

"Is this…is this what sent them to Baltimore?"

"Yeah," she answered, opening the blinds. "He's been seeing a neurosurgeon."

"And is it working?" Jay's voice was as small as it had been when he'd answered the phone.

She had to work to keep hers from failing, too. "Some. But not enough."

There was a long silence from the other end of the line. Then, finally, "is he...do they think...how long is it going to be?"

"Oh, Jay." She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the sill. "It's not like that. This..." it was hard to say the word. "Epilepsy usually isn't fatal."

"No. It's just going to rob him of – oh, jeez, Marty. You said it's getting worse. Just how much worse are we talking about?"

"Mom says we don't know. They're still fighting. He's already lived with this for years..." she trailed off, focusing suddenly on a figure outside the window. He was sitting on the steps of the building across from hers, apparently people-watching, but that was the second time he'd bent his neck to look at something either at or near her own floor.

The resemblance to the black-clad man at the funeral was unmistakable. Yes, she was several floors up, but she was almost positive it was the same man.

_He _is_ following me. Why? Isn't this supposed to be over, now that the article's dead?_

"Marty? You okay?"

"Yeah," she said, distracted. "There's something funny going on."

"There's been something 'funny' going on for a while now."

"No, this is different," she said. "I'm still being followed around. Nobody's actually –" she broke off as a sequence of tones sounded in her ear, over the conversation. Her heart rate accelerated. "Jay, wait a minute. Mom's calling and she put an override request on it."

"Okay. I won't hang up."

"Veta, switch calls. Mom, what's going on? Did you make it back to the city?"

"We made it back, but...Marty, we're at Presbyterian."

"Hold on a second. I was talking to Jay. Veta, conference the lines. Mom, why are you at the hospital? I thought Dad was going to be released once he woke back up, and you were going to go home." It was a bit of overkill to say all of that, she knew, but she wanted to make sure Jay understood what was going on.

Either her mother didn't notice, or she didn't care. "He was, and he was fine until we got back to the city. But then he had another episode, and this one's worse."

"How much worse?" asked Jay.

"You'd both better get over here."


	9. Chapter 9

_Castle_ is the copyrighted property of ABC Studios. This fiction item is intended for entertainment purposes only. No compensation has been received or will be accepted for it, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended or should be implied.

* * *

**Family Secrets**  
_Chapter Nine_

* * *

When Marty got to the hospital room, she opened the door to find Alexis already there. Her mother wasn't, but her father was resting in the hospital bed.

She gave her sister a quick hug and kept her voice down. "What happened?"

"Don't know," answered Alexis. "Kate said something about him getting disoriented in the car on the way back into the city. Had they gone somewhere? The Hamptons?"

"No, a funeral." At the other woman's look, she shook her head. "I'll explain later. How is he? Where's Mom?"

"The restroom. All she said was that he'd woken up and was doing fine, so they let him go, but then in the car his speech started getting garbled and he got drowsy again." Alexis sat down, taking their father's hand. "They were almost home, so she drove straight here instead of calling another ambulance. _Another_ ambulance? Had he been on one already today?"

Marty sighed. "Yeah. The funeral was upstate, and we got into an argument afterward. He got a little too upset and…"

"Let me guess. He had a seizure."

"You know?"

"I only found out a couple years ago. Not when it first started." Her hand was stroking the back of their father's. "They wouldn't have told me except that he had one while playing with Mickey." That was her youngest child, a son. "They asked me not to tell anyone else."

"Why all the secrecy?" She didn't understand this. There was no need to avoid telling family members if all they wanted to do was keep it out of the press. They'd all grown up in the spotlight; discretion was a matter of habit.

This time, it was Alexis who sighed. "I'm not sure how much of it is secrecy and how much of it is denial. When I was growing up, Dad always seemed invincible, and it's amazing all the stuff he just shook off before…" she turned away. "Before."

Marty hesitated. "You're talking about the attack?"

The answer was a nod. She responded by putting a hand on her sister's shoulder and squeezing, offering silent reassurance. Even now, more than a quarter century later, Alexis was almost never able to reference that incident in speech. The post-traumatic stress had debilitated her for years, and she still occasionally had flashbacks.

She was spared the need to say anything further by her mother's return. The older woman was still dressed for the funeral, but she'd exchanged her heels for a pair of flats, unbuttoned the blouse's collar and taken her hair down. It made her look younger, but it didn't hide the exhaustion.

"Hey, Marty," she said. Her voice was rough. "Here we are again, eh?"

"Not in a good way," she answered unsteadily. "Alexis said he was fine, but then got worse again in the car on the way back. Has this happened before too?"

"No, this is new" said her mother. She found a chair and sat down. "The doctor wants to finish the blood tests before trying to wake him back up. He wants to make sure that whatever they do to pull him out of it won't cause even more damage."

"Just how much damage is there? You told me that epilepsy isn't fatal or degenerative."

"Epilepsy isn't," said Alexis. "Did you tell her the rest? She was there when I found the pictures inside the cabinets."

"Tell me the rest what?" Marty looked for a place to sit down. That sounded like she was going to need it.

Her mother took a deep breath, and her face slipped into a mask she remembered her using the one time she'd shadowed her at the precinct for a couple days. It was the one she used when she had to tell families that a loved one had been murdered: sympathetic, yet detached, and giving no hint at the fact that the situation affected her emotionally as well.

And there was nowhere to sit down. She found a spot of wall to lean against.

"No," her mother started. "Epilepsy isn't degenerative. But there's also been some memory loss, and a few other problems. It's very early, and the doctors don't know how far or how fast it's going to go. It's too early and mild to call it a diagnosis yet, but…" she trailed off, taking a breath, but the mask didn't slip. "It looks like the early signs of some sort of dementia."

The room closed in around her. Marty slapped her hands against the wall, desperately looking for something to hang on to. Anything.

Her father's injuries had happened before she was born, so this wasn't entirely a surprise; she'd grown up knowing that there would be long-term effects. Between that and the fact that her parents had been older than average when they'd had her, she'd known that she would probably have to face something like this earlier than most people her age. _But I didn't think it would be this early. I'm not ready. I don't know how to handle it. I can't deal with this yet._

"Marty," said Alexis, reaching for her. "They're fighting. They're not going quietly. And there's still a lot of reason for hope. It's going to be a long time yet before it gets bad. He hasn't even had to stop writing yet –"

"But he's thought about it." Her voice was a croak, barely more than a whisper. "He told me he's going to at least slow down."

"He's not the first author to make that decision in their sixties and seventies. And there are a lot of writers who've actually done their best work after they retired and slowed down."

"But there are a lot who didn't." She still couldn't find a way to anchor herself. Why weren't there more chairs in here? Even a low stool would have helped. She wasn't wearing heels, but it still felt like she was off-balance, and the room was rapidly running out of air.

"I need – I have to take a walk," she choked out, shaking off Alexis' supporting hand. "I'll come back. But right now – right now it's too much."

Her mother nodded, eyes becoming more distant, but somewhere in her expression there was understanding. "Okay. We'll be here."

She stumbled out of the room, intent on finding a waiting room. She had to sit down, catch her breath, adjust to this new reality. It was all so much. Wasn't there supposed to be a limit on the amount of bad news you could get in one day? Why did she have to find out about this on the same day that she found out the full extent of her parents' involvement in bringing down her grandmother's murderer?

There was a padded bench on the other side of the nurse's station. It would do. Marty sank down, shaking, staring out at nothing. _What am I supposed to do next?_

"Hey, big sister. Why aren't you in the room?" Jay sat down beside her. "Is he all right?"

"You haven't been in there yet," she whispered.

"No." He looked her up and down. "But you have, haven't you? How bad is it?"

Her face was wet. When had she started crying? "Bad."

He took her hand. "How bad? Am I going to want to hear this?"

She shook her head.

"And me without any alcohol, too. You think the nurses would let me sneak something in?"

"Don't," she managed. "Not funny."

"It doesn't look like anything's funny right now," he replied. "Relax. I'm sober. Can you tell me what's going on, or do I need to –"

"Go in," she said. "I can't…it's…" There were no words to describe any of this. She hadn't had the time to find them yet.

"Okay," he answered, drawing her into a brief hug. "But don't go anywhere, all right? You're as pale as a ghost."

She managed a nod, and was even able to look up as he stood and made his way toward the room. It was only about halfway down the hall, and the lighting was bright and harsh. Even through the haze of tears, she could see everything between here and the far corridor.

Including the recognizable figure that was nearly around the bend. What?

Still shaky, Marty pushed to her feet and started following. Her steps got faster and faster until she was nearly running. "Cari! Hey, wait a minute!"

Her friend didn't even turn around. Instead, she made her way back through the entrance lobby to the front doors. Marty was running as fast as she could by now, but the gap between them was still too much. She wasn't going to have a chance to catch up.

But then the outside door opened and Cari plowed headlong into someone walking into the hospital. He caught her arms. "Easy there. You'll cause an accident."

Still at the far side of the lobby, she drew up and met the newcomer's eyes. It was Rory.

* * *

They sat down in a far corner of the lobby to talk. Cari's hair was disheveled, though Marty wasn't sure if it was from earlier or if it had happened when she collided with Rory. She was also dressed far more casually than she'd ever seen her. But her smile was just as bright as normal. "Hey, Marty. Didn't know you were here. Is everything all right?"

"I was calling out to you while I ran down the hall," she answered. "You didn't hear me?"

"No. I guess I was kind of lost in my own world, there."

"With all the things that can happen in a hospital corridor? That's as dangerous as standing directly in front of a bicycle's path."

The laugh told her that Cari caught the reference to their previous near-collision, just after she'd gotten back from interviewing Joe Pulgatti. "Reprimand noted. What are you doing here?"

"I'm…" she trailed off and exchanged a glance with Rory. "I'm visiting someone."

"Anyone in particular?"

"Fishing for Page Six?"

The smile slid off Cari's face. "That's not fair. You haven't even asked me why I'm here."

Rory sat back in his chair. "Why are you here?"

"Have we met? I'm Cari McManus. I work with Marty at the _Ledger_."

"We haven't," he answered, "but I've heard your name. I'm Rory Esposito." His tone was light and easy, but she could hear a more serious undercurrent. "So what's a nice girl like you doing at New York-Presbyterian Hospital at twelve-forty in the morning?"

Had it really gotten that late? Marty glanced at her watch. It had.

Cari shook her hair back. "Following up on a tip. You know how we reporters can be."

"Dressed like that?" she asked.

"Oh, you know. Sometimes it's best to go incognito." Cari's voice was breathy and a bit higher than usual. Her fingers worried a rip on the chair's arm. "I didn't expect to be recognized. So what brought you by? Did Marty call you?"

"No." He glanced at her again and she managed a tiny little shake of her head. Cari wasn't unethical, but her father's presence might be too much temptation. "I went by her place and she wasn't there. So I…tracked her down."

"It looks like it didn't take you very long to do that," observed Cari.

"Yeah," he answered. "But I'm good at finding people. It comes with the territory." He gestured to his uniform, which he was still wearing. She wondered who he had called, or whether someone had called him.

"Oh, that's right. You're a police officer. And you wear it well, might I add." She was flashing a smile again, and her hands had stilled, but there was still a touch of something different in her voice. "I can see why Marty's attracted –"

"_Cari."_ This was already uncomfortable. It didn't need to get embarrassing.

"Sorry. Well, you know, I probably ought to be going. It's late, as you've pointed out, and we do have to be at work in the morning. Or are you going to be calling out, Marty?"

"I'm not planning on it." She really shouldn't, even with her father in the hospital. Not after taking this past afternoon off. But work was the last thing on her mind right now.

"Marty? You've been gone for quite a while. Are you all right?"

She hadn't even seen her mother walk into the lobby. Marty stood up, brushing herself off. "Hi, Mom. Yeah, I'm fine. Just ran into a couple of people."

"I can see that. How are you, Rory?"

He also stood. "Fine. Thanks for asking, Sergeant – I mean, Ms. Beckett."

"I think it's okay if you call me Kate, now," she answered. There was no sign of the haggard, worried woman that had been in the hospital room, but that was certainly a front. Her mother turned to Cari, who was still sitting. "Have we met?"

"No. We haven't." She stood up slowly, stiffly, and Marty realized her friend's demeanor had changed once more. Her eyes had darkened until they were nearly black. Her hands were shaking again, and there was no mistaking the sudden harsh tone of her voice.

"But you know who I am." It wasn't a question. Her mother's body language shifted, becoming more cautious. Rory also seemed to be balancing a little bit lighter on his feet, and his hands hovered near his belt. What was going on here?

Cari took a sharp breath, dropping her shoulders. "Of course. You're Marty's mother. She looks a lot like you."

"I don't think that's all of it," answered her mother. "You were relaxed a minute ago. You aren't now. What's your name?"

Her friend's eyes narrowed before she answered. "Cari. Carita McManus."

"McManus." Her mother's gaze sharpened, and she looked over all three of them. "Let me guess. You're related to Robert, aren't you?"

The response was a sardonic smile. "My grandfather."

"And it was your father who died? No one ever mentioned a child."

"Cari," said Marty. "Mom. What are you talking about?"

She was never going to forget this moment for as long as she lived. Because the last thing she ever would have expected was the appearance of naked fury on Cari's face. "Murder, Marty. We're talking about your mother letting my father's murderer _walk away free_."

"It wasn't like that," said her mother softly into the silence that followed. "There was never any evidence –"

"That's because the police never looked for any! They just wrote it off as a suicide!"

"Most of the time, when someone's found hanging in their bathtub, it is a suicide. Brian McManus and his wife –" her mother faltered a little. "I guess that's your mother. They'd just had a tremendous argument, and he'd checked in to a hotel."

"She'd just told him she was pregnant with me," snapped Cari. "It was hardly an argument. And he was in the hotel because we couldn't afford to live inside the Beltway but the senator was keeping him at work too late to catch the Metro back out to where we could afford to live."

"Beltway?" broke in Marty. "Metro? Are you talking about Washington, D.C.? Cari, you told me once that you were born in Brooklyn."

"I was. We'd moved back to live with my mother's parents." Her eyes blazed at her mother. "We had to, because there was nothing after my father died. Not even a burial benefit! After all he'd done for Senator Bracken."

"He was an intern," said her mother. Her tone was even softer, and there was more than a little sympathy in it. "Unpaid. He didn't have any benefits."

"He was a graduate student," snarled Cari. "Not some snot-nosed third-year undergrad whose parents had made some big donation. He had _earned_ that position, and he worked harder than any intern ever did. Did things no intern ordinarily did. He cleaned up the senator's dirt! But all my mother and I ever got were _condolences_."

"Okay, so the Senator was an asshole," said Marty. "That doesn't make him responsible for your father's death."

"You don't get it, do you?" Cari rounded on her. "We couldn't ever do anything. But your parents had a shot. A real shot, and they didn't take it!"

"Just like I didn't take the shot against your grandfather!" spat her mother. "In fact, I was the one who got him _out_ of an attempted murder charge!"

Rory picked then to step between them. He was relaxed but alert, his voice even, and his hands swung free. _He's prepared to move quickly if he has to_, Marty realized. "We need to take this somewhere less public. Is the hospital cafeteria still open? Maybe we can find a table there."

"Actually," said her mother, "I need to go back and check on Rick. I'd only come out for a moment, to try and find Marty."

Cari's laugh was bitter. "As if she were ever that difficult to find."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Please," she answered. "You've been so predictable in all this. And stupid. All you ever had to do was ask your parents about Joe Pulgatti. They covered up for him just as much as they covered for that bastard Bracken."

"Pulgatti wasn't involved," said her mother.

"Hardly. He'd started investigating this on his own as soon as he went into prison!"

"Ladies." Rory was more insistent this time. "Not here. Maybe not even now. Mr. Castle's still being treated."

Cari snorted. "Yeah, well he won't be for much longer."

All of them stopped to stare at her.

"What are you talking about?" asked her mother.

Her co-worker shook her head. "I'm done here. I'm leaving now."

"You're not going anywhere until you explain that statement!"

"What, do you think you're still a cop? You're retired. You can't arrest people anymore."

"But I can," said Rory. He had unsnapped the strap that held his handcuffs in place.

"No probable cause," answered Cari, triumph evident in her voice. "I'm a reporter, remember? We all know our Fourth and Fifth Amendment rights and we definitely know what not to say in a time like this." She laughed again. "Enjoy your free time in retirement, Kate Beckett. You're going to have lots of it."

Her mother had gone absolutely pale, hands shaking, but Rory stepped in front of Cari, blocking her path. "You know," he said, voice deceptively soft, "you never did explain what brought you by here. Who were you visiting, Miss McManus?"

"I don't have to answer that."

"Should I take that as a refusal to answer based on the Fifth Amendment?"

"Take it any way you'd like. I'm leaving now."

"Ms. Beckett?" They all turned to see the doctor standing there. "Do you have a moment?"

"Is it about my husband?"

"Yes. Why was he taking insulin?"

"Insulin?" Her mother shook her head. "He wasn't taking insulin. He's not diabetic."

The doctor's gaze fell on Cari, and Marty realized he'd overheard at least part of the conversation. "Nevertheless, his blood work showed that there was an insulin injection sometime within the past six hours. It might have happened as recently as here, but it could have been as early as when he was in the emergency room upstate. Someone could have made a mistake."

At that, Cari turned and strode toward the door.

The doctor raised his voice. "Or it could have been a poisoning attempt."

She started to run, but Rory was faster. He caught her wrists, twisting enough to make her stop. "Why are you running?"

"Let me go," she hissed. "You still don't have probable cause."

"Statements that imply that you know something's going on coupled with an attempt to leave the scene just as pertinent information comes to light? I'd call that reasonable suspicion to detain. Who do you think the judge would agree with?"

"This won't ever get to court," she countered. "You'll cover it up, just like you covered up Senator Bracken's activities to protect him. You're all still under his control, the way you've been all along! He's bought and paid for every last one of you!" She was shouting now. "You don't have any idea what it's like, seeing him on television all these years and knowing that _justice could have been served!_ Well, now it has been! It – it was…I –" she cut herself off suddenly.

Marty's stomach was a mass of knots, but that didn't prevent her from pushing her way around so that she could face her directly. "What did you do?"

She shook her head.

"Answer the question! _What did you do, Cari?_ How are you involved in all of this?" She had to clasp her hands behind her back to keep herself from wrapping them around the other woman's throat. All of this time she thought they'd been friends!

Cari's response was to jerk hard against Rory, trying to escape, but he slid his hands to her forearms and pushed her up against the wall. She struggled, trying to find her way free, and in the process her jacket caught on a chair. The edge pulled out before snapping back suddenly, causing something to fall out of the pocket and clatter to the floor.

Her mother bent over and picked it up, holding it at eye level. It was an empty syringe.

"Plain sight," she snapped. "What was in this?"

Unable to move, her eyes flashed defiance.

Keeping her pinned against the wall, Rory turned his head to make eye contact with her mother. She nodded slightly and reached behind him to pull the handcuffs free from his belt, handing them forward.

"Carita McManus," he began. "You're under arrest for the attempted murder of Richard Castle. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney…"

* * *

Jay and Alexis were huddled on the hallway bench she'd found earlier, their arms around each others' waists. She slid down next to them, legs wobbly as the adrenaline from earlier began to wear off. Her eyes were also starting to sting again.

"He's in a coma," said Alexis. "She gave him a lot. They put him on an I.V. but it could be a few hours before he comes out of it. And there might be complications because of the reactions with his other medicine."

Marty leaned forward and buried her face in her hands. "I thought Cari was my friend. But she was using me the whole time."

"How did she get to him?" asked Jay. "He wasn't ever alone."

"Yeah," she said, not straightening up. "He was. For about half an hour while I took Mom back to get the car at the funeral home. It seemed perfectly safe at the time, since the nurses were watching. He was just napping, anyway, while we waited for the discharge instructions."

"Stop it," he answered. "This isn't your fault. Nobody had any reason to think something dangerous was going on. Hell, you weren't even in the city."

"He wouldn't even have been in the emergency room to begin with, if I hadn't gotten him upset enough to have a seizure."

"And neither one of them would have been at the funeral if it weren't for some misguided sense of obligation," answered Alexis. "Did you even see her there? Have a reason to be suspicious at all?"

"No, I…" but then she trailed off, turning to look at her sister. "Wait a minute. Yes, I did. But it wasn't Cari that I saw. It was someone else, someone who –" she broke off, sitting back up. "That person who's been following me ever since the warehouse."

"What warehouse?"

She shook her head and pushed to her feet, feeling her heart start to pound again. _I'm going to pay for all this excitement tomorrow._ "Later. Is Mom still in there?"

"Yeah. Why. No, hey, wait a second, she's busy –" he caught her wrist. "Marty. Hold on. She's not a cop anymore."

"And that's her husband in there," added Alexis. "Kate's pretty distracted at the moment. What are you thinking about?"

"Insulin's a prescription. How did she get it? And why was she the one who tried to do this, when there were other people involved? People who are probably more skilled at...at conspiracy and murder. This has apparently been going on for years."

"Other people involved? What do you mean?"

"It wasn't Cari who was watching my apartment earlier. She's also not the one who messed up my car, since I know where she was while I was upstate the first time." Marty reached into her purse for her earpiece. "Veta, sign on and run a directory search. We need to call –"

"It's 1:30 in the morning," interrupted Alexis. "Nobody's awake."

She let her arm drop. "Damn. You're right. Veta, cancel."

"_Okay,"_ said the virtual assistant. _"Marty, you have an unread text message."_

"From who?"

"_Unknown. Received at 9:38 p.m."_

She'd been on her way to the hospital at that point, weaving her bike between pedestrians because it was faster than getting a cab. "Go on and play it. Text to speech, please."

"_You need some information. Please be certain that you're in the St. Luke's Garden at daybreak tomorrow morning."_

"That's all?" she asked. "No information about the sender? Not even a telephone number?"

"_Source number listed is invalid. No other attribution information captured,"_ responded Veta.

Marty sighed, feeling the fatigue seep back into her body. She took the earpiece off and dropped down heavily next to Jay. He put an arm around her shoulders and she leaned in gratefully.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I don't think I need to call anyone after all," she answered. "I think they've called me."

* * *

_Kate's use of "eh?" is an homage to Stana Katic. I know she probably wouldn't actually express herself that way.  
_


	10. Chapter 10

_Castle_ is the copyrighted property of ABC Studios. This fiction item is intended for entertainment purposes only. No compensation has been received or will be accepted for it, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended or should be implied.

* * *

**Family Secrets**  
_Chapter Ten_

* * *

The weather might have been clear, but the temperature still reflected January cold, and she finally admitted to herself that she was shivering. Marty glanced at her watch. The hands stood at 8:15. Sunrise had come nearly an hour ago, and she had to leave for work in the next twenty minutes if she hoped to be on time.

Wrapping her coat and scarf tighter around her body, she sighed. "I think they caught us."

There was a rustling in the bushes behind her before Rory emerged, brushing twigs and dead leaves off his coat. He wasn't in uniform, and the coat's bulk hid the shoulder holster, but the wariness in his stance made his attitude clear. That, of course, and the fact that he'd been hiding in the first place.

He sat down onto the bench next to her. "I'm sorry."

"I am too." Sighing again, she leaned her head back to catch whatever warmth she could from the early morning sun. "This was a wild goose chase at best. An anonymous, un-sourced text message? That could mean anything."

"The timing's not a coincidence."

"No," she admitted. "It isn't. But with the article dead, it doesn't really matter."

He wrapped a hand around hers, squeezing through the material of both their gloves before lacing their fingers together. "It was worth a try, especially given that she's not talking." Cari had clammed up in the car on the way to the police station, refusing to give any information even though tests had shown that the syringe in her pocket had had synthetic insulin in it at some point during the last twenty-four hours.

The tests, she knew, wouldn't tell them how much or whether it was the same dose of insulin that had been given to her father. Marty didn't have to be an expert to know that the evidence against the other reporter, while strong, was circumstantial. Any decent lawyer would be able to get an acquittal.

"You look tired," said Rory in response to her long pause. "Are you sure you want to go in today?"

"I took off yesterday afternoon." It felt like that had been a million years ago. "It really wouldn't look good if I called out today as well."

"How well are you really going to be able to function? Last night was your second night without much sleep."

"Oh, come on, college wasn't _that_ long ago. I can still pull a couple of all-nighters."

"There's a difference between staying up all night to study and staying up all night because…well, for the reasons you have."

She shrugged. "I know. But I also need to go in for myself. I really need to do something normal right now." How could she explain this? "Everything seems to have changed when I wasn't looking, and I'm not sure what's real anymore."

"Didn't you tell me your father came out of the coma on his own? That was real."

"I know." It had taken him some time to regain his lucidity, but by the time she left the hospital the conversation had progressed to the point that her mother had been rolling her eyes. _Not all criminal conspiracies lead back to the CIA, Castle. Really._

Rory squeezed her hand again. "He and Jay in the same room without an argument starting. That was real."

She laughed softly. "I guess so. Even if it probably won't last."

"You can hope, though."

"Yeah," she said, thinking about her brother's clear eyes. "I do have reason to hope."

With his free hand, he reached out and traced the line of her jaw, gently turning her to face him. "You know what else is real?"

"What?"

"This." He brushed her lips with his. She let her eyes fall closed and leaned in, responding to the kiss. It was gentle and unhurried, but there was no mistaking the heat that lay just behind it. Marty felt herself stop shivering.

"That's real," said Rory when they drew apart again. "The timing's a little off, but nothing else is."

"Timing hasn't ever been my strong suit anyway." She nestled closer to him. "I've only got a few more minutes left before I have to leave."

"I should get home and get to bed myself," he answered. "Tonight, you need to make sure you catch up on your sleep."

"Why is that?"

This kiss wasn't quite as gentle, and she felt his tongue touch hers briefly. "Because I have tomorrow night off. And you won't be sleeping much then."

"Why, Officer Esposito," she answered, hearing a coy tone creep into her voice. "Are you implying that you intend to keep me awake?"

"I'm not implying." He stood up and pulled her to her feet, brushing his lips against hers again before his eyes flickered down her body. "I'm telling you flat out. We're going to have that conversation we keep putting off. Or that keeps getting put off for us."

"And are you sure conversation is all that will happen?"

His smile mirrored hers. "Honest answer? I really hope it isn't."

She shook her hair back. "You've known me too long to be anything except honest. I can catch you in a lie. Just like you can catch me."

With a laugh, he pulled her in one more time, cradling her face between his hands as he kissed her. Her fingers wrapped around the lapels of his coat as she savored the moment, and after it ended she laid her head on his shoulder. His arms were warm and strong around her.

"I do have a question," she told him. "How did you find me last night?"

He chuckled. "Franzetti called in a woman riding her bike down the sidewalk. But he was on foot, and by the time he caught up with her, she was locking it to the rack at Presbyterian-Columbia. He decided to let it go." Rory's hand curled behind her head, cradling her against him. "I went by there after my shift. You'd forgotten to completely close the lock."

"I was distracted." The lock had been secured when she'd retrieved her bike to come over to this meeting. He must have finished the job for her.

"That's what I figured, especially when I saw that."

"Thanks for not pushing the issue, then," she answered, reluctantly stepping back. "And now, I really need to go get back on that bike and get to work."

He touched her cheek. "Okay. But, Marty?"

She picked up her messenger bag and slung it over her shoulder. Its weight thumped solidly against her back, but she was so used to that she barely noticed. "Yeah?"

"Bike lanes this morning, all right?"

* * *

Taking a deep breath, Marty knocked on the brownstone's door. She knew the lock was still keyed to her handprint, but tonight it seemed like the more appropriate thing to do.

Her mother's face appeared on the monitor. "Hey. What are you doing knocking?"

She shrugged. "I don't live here anymore."

There was an audible click as the door unlocked. "I'm in the family room. Get yourself something to drink, if you feel like it."

Stepping inside, she took her coat off and put it away before stopping in the kitchen and taking a glass from one of the cabinets. She grimaced when she saw the picture taped to the inside of the door. An insulin overdose didn't explain that.

Closing the cabinet, she ignored the wine that had been set out on the kitchen counter and got herself a glass of water instead. It had been a long day at work and she was exhausted; alcohol would only put her to sleep.

_It's time to face things squarely anyway, Marty._

Straightening her shoulders, she turned around and found her way to the old black chair that had been in her mother's apartment even before her parents had met. It had some visible wear, so they'd put it in the family room instead of the formal living area. The familiar, comfortable seat had been her usual place to settle when she still lived here.

Her mother leaned back into the corner of the couch next to it, cradling a glass of wine. "So."

"So," answered Marty. "I guess we have a lot to talk about." She took a steadying breath. "Can I start? I have something I want to show you."

"All right."

Reaching into the messenger bag she'd brought with her into the room, Marty took out the envelope that Christopher Pulgatti had given her at that first meeting. She followed it with the hard copies of the financial records she'd received in her email today, and then, with a long look at her mother, pulled out the three additional envelopes she'd found in her bag when she got to work. They hadn't been in there when she went to the garden behind St. Luke's Episcopal Church this morning.

She stacked everything on the coffee table between them, watching her mother bite her lip when she saw the last three envelopes. "I saw the last copies of those destroyed right in front of me. Or at least I thought I did."

"There was one more," said Marty, pulling out the final item, a business-sized envelope. Instead of adding it to the stack of items between them, she opened it, taking out the note inside. "It was found in Cole Maddox' – Cedric Marks' – hotel room. Captain Gates locked it up in the evidence room at the Twelfth."

Her mother reached out and touched the envelopes, brushing her fingertips along the edges. When she spoke, her voice had dropped to a rough whisper. "All this time. I thought it was a bluff, but all this time, there was one more copy."

"It was a bluff, as far as you knew," said Marty, keeping her tone gentle. "An incredible one. And it was just audacious enough to actually work."

"Have you looked inside?" asked her mother.

"Only enough to find this." She passed the note in her hands over to her mother, catching a glimpse at the name at it the top of stationery: _Office of Edward T. Carroll, State Senator_.

Her mother read the note quietly, without a change of expression, and then re-folded it before passing it back to her. "This is addressed to you, not to me. That means the files are yours. What are you going to do with them?"

"What do you want me to do? Do you want me to finish the job?"

"Finish the job?"

"Bringing Bracken down," answered Marty.

"You said you hadn't looked inside," said her mother.

"I don't need to. There's really only one reason you would have helped with the information leaks that broke the kickbacks scandal." She paused. "You got your revenge, even if it didn't bring your mother back."

"I knew it wouldn't," said her mother after a moment. "I just…wanted him out of a position to influence. Wanted to make sure he couldn't do any more harm, couldn't hurt anyone else." She took a long breath. "It worked."

"What about justice?"

"Don't you think it's justice for him to have to live the way he does now? Broke, barely managing to hang on, yet still alive to remember everything he's done?" She brushed her fingertips against a cheekbone. "Every single day, forced to confront the fact that despite doing all those terrible things, he never got what he wanted anyway."

"Do you think he has that much of a conscience?" asked Marty.

"This is going to sound strange, but yes. I think he does." Her mother touched the envelopes again. "We were never able to completely trace the funds that came to us after Pulgatti was paroled, but the note was clear: they were supposed to be used on his behalf. So we established that blind trust to pay his assisted-living bills, to cover the funeral. Anything the man needed."

Marty nodded, thinking of the bank records she'd received in her email.

"It would have taken a national-level politician to be able to bounce money through places like Afghanistan during the 2010s," said her mother. "Or connections to a national politician. I'm reasonably certain that Senator Bracken's the one who paid all those bills. Your father and I…we just got the money to the right places."

"So you _helped_ him?" she asked, startled.

"No. We helped Joe Pulgatti." Her mother's tone was firm. "He was determined to go straight after all those years in prison. He deserved that second chance. And if Bracken was willing to pay for it…" she trailed off, but the meaning was obvious.

"I see." Marty turned the folded note over in her hands. "What was Senator Carroll's connection to all this? Why did he stonewall me about the parole hearing?"

"There never was a parole hearing," answered her mother. "He just created a set of records in exchange for financial help with his first campaign. Nobody thought anyone would ever look that closely." She laughed softly. "And then you came along, doing research for a newspaper article. Of all the people who could've brought this back up, it was my own daughter."

It was Marty's turn to drop her eyes. If she hadn't overheard that name during that argument, she never would have looked into this case. If she had been willing to leave it alone once it became obvious there was more going on, she never would have ended up in danger. If she had just come to her parents sooner, it never might have gone as far as someone else's death.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly.

"For what?"

"Snooping. Not coming to you when I should have. Not trusting you –"

"You were right. We wouldn't have told you. Not everything." Her mother sighed. "We were trying to keep you safe."

"I know." Seeing the expression on her mother's face, she leaned over the table between them to take her hands. "I know, Mom."

"But now that you know what you do – that you have the information you have – you're not safe anymore. You were _kidnapped_ and if I hadn't gotten the phone call it could've gone much worse."

"Who was that, anyway?" she asked.

"That's just it, Marty," said her mother quietly. Her voice had roughened again. "I don't know. It was always a burner phone, and the only thing we were ever able to trace was the location. They only called when they needed me."

She took a steadying breath. "You know that whoever they are, they're still watching me, right? Do you have any idea how to stop it?"

"No," said her mother quietly, closing her eyes. "That's the problem. I don't. I know Bracken had other enemies. Political enemies, I mean, not just people like your friend."

"She wasn't my friend." Cari's betrayal still stung, and she guessed it would for quite a while. She was going to have to be more cautious about what she shared in the future.

"Your co-worker, then. My point is, this situation has always been so much bigger than my mother's murder. Which means that it's that much harder to stop." Her mother sighed. "There are no perfect answers here. And no perfect people. We've made mistakes, and possibly even collaborated with him."

"I'm not sure there was any other choice you could have made." Not if they'd wanted to live with themselves, anyway. It wasn't always obvious, but her parents were both driven by a very firm sense of right and wrong. They'd passed it along to her.

"Neither am I," said her mother, suddenly looking every one of her years. "Neither am I."

Her expression was fragile, vulnerable. Those weren't adjectives she would have ever thought would apply to Kate Beckett, but Marty noticed that they fit her mother well. _Far too well_, she mused. _She's been here before. I've just never seen it. Maybe it's because I never looked._

She was looking now, and it wasn't a reassuring sight. Reaching out, she drew her mother into a hug. Their thoughts might not be comforting, but the embrace was. No matter what, they'd always be family. Marty closed her eyes and held on for a long time, realizing there was really only one choice she could make about the files.

* * *

"The night was quiet, too quiet. It made Gonzalez suspicious as he found his way through the edge of Central Park. This wasn't the New York he knew, the busy, loud city that never slept."

Marty paused in the open doorway of her father's study, smiling at the sight of her father dictating one of his novels. She'd grown up watching him do this; it wasn't until she'd been doing research for her college project that she'd found out that he'd keyed the Derrick Storm and Nikki Heat novels instead of using dictation software.

"It was strange – no, strike that, eerie – and wrong. Something was about to go down…"

Crossing into the room, she came up behind him and put her hands on his shoulders.

"Pause recording," he said, reaching up to cover her hands with his. "Hey. You're still here?"

"I was on my way out." She shifted the messenger bag's shoulder strap into a more comfortable position. "You're writing. I thought you were going to be giving that up."

"No. I told you I'm slowing down, not stopping." He gestured toward the screen in front of him. "There are still a lot of stories left to tell."

"You've published over fifty books," she pointed out. "Not to mention the short stories, graphic novels and all that work you've done as Clare Marlowe." The latter author was known for his coming-of-age stories written for teen and young adult audiences. Though their family had known, her father had only publicly admitted to writing those about five years ago.

"I could still write fifty more before I ran out of material. That decision to shadow your mother was the best I ever made."

She chuckled. If it hadn't been for that decision, she wouldn't even be alive. "It's good to see you in here. I'm glad you're all right. I –" she was startled to feel tears pressing against the insides of her eyelids. "Oh, Dad. I'm so sorry."

"What?" He stood and pulled her into a hug, running a hand through her hair. "Shh. It's all right. We should've told you before so you didn't have to find out like that."

She shook her head against him. "I understand why you didn't." It had taken her a while to think it through, but this particular secret made sense. He wanted to savor whatever time he had left, without the maudlin conversations and emotional scenes that would result from actually discussing what was coming.

He nodded and brushed her hair back, straightening it from the mess he'd made. "You know, it would be easier to manage if you braided this."

She managed a smile. "I never learned how, you know. My father always did it for me."

"You'll have to ask him to teach you, then," he answered. "There's still time."

She gestured at the computer screen. "Just like there's still time to write your stories?"

"Yes," he answered. "It's not over yet, and I'll be writing for a while yet." He met her eyes. "As long as I can, Marty."

That was, she realized, probably about as close as he would get to talking about the future. At least for right now. "I'm glad to hear it." She gave him one last hug and stepped back. "I'm on my way home. It's been a long couple of days."

"That it has. Call when you get there? Just to let us know you made it?"

"I will. And, Dad…"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"I love you."

The lines around his eyes crinkled. "I love you too."

Dropping the messenger bag across her shoulders, she slipped out the front door and bent down to unlock her bike from where she'd secured it against the front steps' railing. When she straightened, she caught her breath.

There, sitting on a bench directly across the street, was another one of the black-clad men. She had seen so many over the last couple of days that she wasn't sure if she had seen this particular one before, but the intent was clear enough. She squared her shoulders, trying to think of what she should say.

He reacted before she could come up with anything. With an enigmatic quirk of the lips, he reached up and touched one brow in a brief salute. Then, picking up the pad that had been lying next to him, he stood up, turned and walked away, heading in the direction opposite of the one she was about to go.

Marty shook her head and chuckled softly. _All right. Message received._

"Veta," she said out loud. "Traffic check. Find me the best way home."

* * *

"Damn it, Castle! What did I tell you about riding your bike in the newsroom?"

Marty rolled her eyes. "Both of my feet are on the floor, Reston. Not the pedals." The fact that she was still straddling the bike was immaterial, wasn't it? "Not to mention that my rear end is not on the seat. Good morning to you, too, by the way."

"What's so good about it? Must be something, since you're actually on time today."

She laughed, reveling in the normalcy of the banter, and walked the bike over to the wall behind her desk. Swinging a leg over, she let it lean and reached into her bag to get her pad and the envelopes she'd left inside overnight. She hadn't felt a need to open them and look through; sleep had seemed like the better idea.

Her editor had folded his arms, watching her. "You might not want to get too comfortable."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Get situated and then get into my office. You're headed out on an assignment."

She pulled her helmet off, but instead of putting it into its usual drawer she just dropped it on the desk and smoothed her hair. "Give me ten."

"You get eight."

She'd take twelve, and she knew it. Opening the bottom drawer, she dragged the files inside toward the front so that she could put the envelopes behind them.

"Good morning, Marty." The intern from NYU had wandered over.

"Good morning, Tanya," she answered. "What's this I heard about you taking over Page Six for a while? Angling to land a job after you graduate, or are you just tired of getting coffee and running web searches for everyone else?"

The other woman shrugged. "My double major is in entertainment business, so it fits. It's only until the _Ledger_ finds another staff columnist, though." She paused. "That was a pretty big story, all that stuff about Cari. Was it true?"

Marty took a long breath, schooling her features. "Yeah, it's true. I don't think she ever really expected to be able to get this close to my family, but when the opportunity presented itself…" she sighed. "I'm not entirely sure I wouldn't have been just as tempted."

"I heard she made her bail."

"She did." There'd been another anonymous message waiting for her when she woke up this morning, but the source had been obvious. _For what it's worth, I'd really started to care about you personally. You're a good person and you'll be a great staff writer. Good luck, Marty._

"And who knows?" she continued, eying the empty space she'd made at the back of the drawer. "Reston might put you on that trial as an assistant, if you ask him. It'd be a good way to earn some clips."

"It might," acknowledged Tanya. She gestured to the envelopes that Marty was dropping into the drawer. "Are those related to that?"

"No," she answered, closing the drawer, locking it and pocketing the key. The files would be safe enough there until she had a chance to take them down to the archives room and use the high-resolution scanner. Strangely enough, despite all the hands they'd passed through, nobody had ever thought to make electronic copies.

"Were they from the pardons article, then? Are you going to try and bring that back up?"

Marty paused, considering her answer. If she produced these with a re-proposal of the idea, adjusted to include the connection with Senator Bracken's downfall, she might very well get approval to write it. There were still a lot of questions to be answered, but the files already proved that the headlines would be spectacular.

They would also draw attention toward her parents, though, and it might not be the right kind of attention. Helping to arrange Joe Pulgatti's pardon, and then later providing a conduit for funding his retirement, had been legally questionable at best. She wasn't quite ready to declare it wrong, though.

On the other hand, the story was worth telling, and it would bring closure to a lot of people, including Christopher Pulgatti and even Cari McManus. There would eventually come a time when releasing this information was likely to do more good than harm.

"I might bring it back up someday," she finally answered. "But not today."

* * *

**END**

* * *

___"Clare Marlowe" is a shout-out to Victoria St. Clair from the Nikki Heat books and, of course, to Andrew Marlowe. Also, if you think you spotted a reference to 5x24 "Watershed," you're right.  
_

_This is it, folks. I hope you've enjoyed! I certainly enjoyed writing it, even though it has taken me six-and-a-half months and a lot of hard work to finish. I think it's been worth it, though. _

_An interesting bit of trivia: almost all of this story was written before 8:00 in the morning. These six-and-a-half months have helped me cement a habit of getting up early to write, even though I'm very emphatically not a morning person.  
_

_I owe special thanks to nia for becoming a beta reader about halfway through. ("You have a problem with your story: it's not finished.") Also, to all of you who have cheered me on through what I thought would be the most unpopular Castle story on fanfiction dot net. In addition, I owe thanks to tish for rescuing me from plotting hell in January and to ncb1 and jackwabbit for telling me I'm not crazy.  
_

_For those who have asked: yes, there will be a sequel focusing on Jay; it will also address some of the questions and issues I've left unanswered for right now. I have two other projects lined up before I can start on that, but they're shorter than this one. I'll probably start writing it in late August and, knowing my own writing speed, you can anticipate posts somewhere around October. I'll add a new chapter to this story when I start the posting so that it'll trigger your story alerts._

_Thanks again! September and Season Six will be here before we know it._


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